Strangers in the Night
by WriteToLive
Summary: Javert wants what he cannot admit to himself he wants. Valjean is...Valjean.
1. Chapter 1

The weeks in Montreuil sur Mer have a symmetry that is both pleasing, and tortuous. Pleasing, in that the predictability of the routine suits his character, tempering the variety of the actual work; torturous, in that he can predict, to the day, to the _hour_, the effect the time spent in the mayor's presence will have on him.

Monday is the best day of the week. On Sundays, he sees Madeleine only at church in the morning, and spends the remaining half-day in blessed freedom. It allows him time to regain equilibrium, time he spends preparing his uniform for the work week ahead. He polishes his boots. He has his shirts cleaned and starched. He oils the leather of his belt, and makes sure his sword is sharp. On Monday morning, he arrives at the police building with an ordered head, full of nothing but what the criminals of the town may have in store. In the evening, he meets Madeleine at his factory, and reports on the day's activities. He tries to avoid looking at him too closely, and receives the same treatment in return. It is only at the end of the brief conference that the problem begins anew; Madeleine, who spends more time with his eyes angled towards the desk than at his face, watches his back as he leaves. He knows it, because he feels it, and because he is an honest man who refuses to attempt a lie even towards himself, he cannot pretend he does not.

By Wednesday evening, the weight of Madeleine's gaze makes his neck hot as he leaves the office. He finds himself wondering if the man has walked to the window to prolong his study, but cannot bring himself to look up to check.

By Friday, he walks down the stairs with his eyes closed, fingers clutching the hilt of his sword as if to draw strength from it. It helps to feel the solid mass of steel under his gloves, as though holding on to something real will take away the ambiguity of those eyes aimed at his back. By the time he has crossed the factory floor to the door at the side, he is no longer breathing. It is always the same.

And on Saturday, it is unbearable. It is the longest meeting of the week, reviewing the six days past, and looking to the week ahead. Madeleine will sometimes interject with points raised from his own work during the last days. Conferences with other gentlemen of the town, plans to extend the hospital, and give more aid to the poor. The man looks at him then, at least for a time, until the brown eyes slip to the side, or down. When Javert responds with what are usually objections, or points Madeleine must surely have missed in his plans, the mayor listens without apparent focus. Javert cannot tell if his thoughts are welcome, or expected, or objectionable, because Madeleine will not show his whole face. And by the time they are concluded, there is a week's worth of covert attention built up under the layers of his skin. Glances in the street when they pass, the occasional walk side by side if they are moving in the same direction, a skirmish here and there over the correct sentencing of a criminal. And the nightly reports, where Madeleine will not meet his eye, but roams over him as he leaves. It is a trespass, because what sort of man watches under cover of a man's turned back? But he cannot claim he dislikes it. He has tried to. He attempted to get angry at the man when he first realised his own suspicious gaze had a twin. Now, he does not know what to think. He only knows that Saturday nights are torture. He reads, as he always does, and learns not to hate it so much – at least on the nights it keeps his mind occupied, and his hands unsullied.

Javert attends Mass on Sunday mornings, and finds his mind wandering from the Father's voice, to Madeleine's lips, always moving in prayer. Madeleine's voice, raised in song. Madeleine's smile, breaking the heart of every single woman in the city, warm as it is with everyone but him. Javert walks home on Sundays, always slow, deep in thought. The man is a fount of everything fine, but there is something behind those eyes. He feels it in his blood. His traitorous blood, that has started to react as those women do. The conscientious preparation of his uniform used to be simply because it was necessary, and because he takes quiet pride in being immaculate. Now it is a prayer in a new form, silent busywork to keep his hands engaged, and away from himself.

He wrestles with the question of how to deal with it. He could ignore it, but the prospect of living with this unspoken…whatever it is, is ridiculous. There does not seem to be any explanation forthcoming from the mayor, and he cannot live in hope that one will suddenly be voiced. Asking the man seems to be the only option. And why should he not? It is not as though Madeleine will have any idea of the effect of his silent scrutiny – and besides, the explanation may be perfectly simple. Javert has suspicions, and has had since he arrived. If they are correct, a conversation might uncover some truth.

Good sense or not, he cannot deny the nerves in his gut on the next Saturday evening. Madeleine sits straight-backed as he reports, and listens with intent at the beginning, until the brown gaze slips again. Javert continues until he is finished, and then stops. The man does look at him then, smile primed, and ready to dismiss.

'Monsieur le Maire, I would ask a question.'

The deviation from the script seems as much a surprise to Madeleine as it was to himself, when he realised it had to come. 'Then do, Inspector, by all means.'

It is Javert's turn to avert his eyes, and he addresses the wall behind the man's left shoulder. 'Do you find my work lacking, monsieur?'

A brief pause, and then a huffed laugh of surprise. And, perhaps, relief, which makes him wonder what the man thought he might have asked. 'Lacking? Javert, why ever would you ask that?'

The words are more difficult to say than he thought. 'Your attention, monsieur. I feel it wanders. Whether this is some reflection of my work, or a personal enmity, I cannot say. If it is the former, I would prefer you tell me in which ways I am failing, so that I can rectify them.'

It is true, because he always speaks true. But Javert has considered whether there was more he should feel obliged to say. If he could find words to frame his thoughts further, he would try. It is impossible; how can he say, _I feel you watch when I turn my back, and I cannot contain what it makes me want to do_. Madeleine's eyes are wide now, and surprise makes his smile genuine. 'Why would you believe I have a personal enmity against you?'

'I did not say you did, monsieur. Merely enquired as to whether it was the case.'

'And if it were?'

It takes a moment to understand the question. 'Then...I would ask what I had done to displease you, and offer an apology.'

Madeleine's eyebrows raise, and he sits back in his chair. 'You are sure you would apologise, even without knowing what it might be?'

Again, it takes a moment. It seems safest, in the end, to try and return the question to something he had meant to say anyway. 'My job is to serve you, monsieur. It does not require personal approval on your part. But if there is some way I have wronged you, or made you uncomfortable, I see no reason why it should make these meetings unpleasant for you. Speak, and I will put the problem to rights.'

There is silence. Madeleine looks to his desk, his fingers fiddling with a pen. Javert feels the air become heavy, but can gain no satisfaction in the proof that he is not alone in this. Whatever this is. 'Javert...there is no enmity. And I certainly don't find your work lacking. It is nothing but perfectly thorough, and correct.' He leans forward a little, his forearms resting on the chipped wooden surface. 'But I am curious as to what prompted this.'

Javert cannot tell an untruth. He cannot even wish he could. Still, he wrestles with the words before they insist on being aired. 'You watch me, Monsieur le Maire. You look away when I stand before you, and you watch me when I leave.'

His gaze is above the man's head, now. But when there is no reply, he risks a glance. The pen is frozen in Madeleine's fingers, caught in mid-twist, and the brown eyes are fixed on a point on the desk.

'Oh.'

Javert looks away. And then back. Madeleine is looking at him; as their eyes lock, he feels it again. That silent weight, that builds all week. Only now it comes on top of six days of it, and Javert feels his blood start to rise, thrumming low and strong in his ears.

'Well. That is not enmity.'

His collar feels tight. There is heat at his neck. He swallows hard, and bows abruptly, anything to break eye contact. 'Then I shall take my leave of you, sir. I wish you good evening.'

'Javert-'

But he is walking away, praying his legs won't bow under the pressure of that gaze. His feet take him quickly now. There is no chance of outrunning the sinful thoughts that build as the days pass, but he can try. By the time he reaches the safety of his closed door, he is breathing hard, and feels the prick of sweat in the whiskers by his ears. 'Control,' he says, out loud, but his back has to rest against the door and hold him when he feels his legs may fail.

Saturday is the worst day of the week. Always.

###

Javert has been a spy his whole life. It comes as naturally to him as lying does to a thief, and it is an asset he has long since learned to appreciate. It began when he was a boy, when he would observe his world as an outsider must. It was a secret that was his alone; he could not trust his rags to hide it, so it crept under his skin and curled behind his eyes, a silent shield against the daily horrors of existence. At every injustice, it spoke to him. _You will not always be this boy_, it said. _You will rise above this_. And when things were at their worst, when he was beaten, or starved, or the clouds hid the stars from the grating in that cell, he would close his eyes and hear it whisper in his ear; _watch_.

There were the guards in his mother's - in his – prison, trading her favour for extra food, and free passage for him. The other boys of the street, and the way they talked and moved, the things they stole, the girls they saw. Watching was necessary, to avoid becoming like them. The words in books, spelled out in pieces under the grubby finger of Monsieur Guerin, so he could learn to read and not spend his life in the damned bliss of ignorance. And then later, the slaves of Toulon, their work, and aches, and anger. To be effective, a guard cannot simply react to trouble, but must anticipate it, and be ready to move at the slightest hint of heightened blood and clenched fists.

Now, Montreuil sur Mer, and Javert watches. The people; yes. The streets, and the docks; yes. And the mayor; _yes_. Javert watches his eyes, and the way they move, because there is something about the corners of them that tugs at his memory. And because the man watches in return, and damns him to actions he has striven his whole life to reach beyond.

Another Saturday night, and the ache is killing him slowly. It is November, and cold, yet his skin is flushed with the pain of torment, the want of touch. He wakes in the dark, from a dream of light; Madeleine's smile, framed by the soft glow of candles, and the gentle brush of fingertips down his thighs. Javert groans, and turns his face into the pillow, his hands clenched into fists. No, he will not. He cannot. To give in is to reduce himself to the animal, to debase himself as he has promised he will not. 'God give me strength,' he mutters, and twists his eyes against the fever of the dream, against the tight throb of his cock, and swollen balls. A hand twitches, instinct telling him he should grab, and tug, and stroke it away; he fists the sheets and tries to breathe. He has seen men do this. He has watched them standing over his mother, shameless and exposed. He has seen her laugh and put her hand on them, had to watch as she lay back and spread her knees. Closing his eyes never worked then. He would hear them, those men, grunting in the dark, while the air grew sweet with the smell of their sin. Sometimes the light of the moon reflected off a naked backside, thrusting in abandon; sometimes God was forgiving, and obscured everything but the noise, and the smell. But it was worse, almost, those animal cries rising from the depths of their depravity. He would put his hands over his ears, and turn away, but never managed to make it disappear.

He thought he would be free when she died. No more rutting in the straw like pigs, no more noise. He would have peace, and tell himself it never happened – or at least, consign it to a past he would never acknowledge. But then came Toulon, and not three days into his new life, the sound rose again. Animals in the dark, joined by the frantic clanking of chains. Sometimes the grunts became screams of pain, sometimes accompanied by jeers and encouragement of the other creatures. And sometimes, there came a noise they probably thought was pleasure, a hollow approximation of joy. The guards were told not to interfere. He stood with the rest, ignoring the lewd comments of men who should know better, and refusing to enter their game of bets on who was getting it tonight. _Never_, he told himself, listening to the voice behind his eyes. In order to rise, a man had to set himself apart. So. _Never_.

He tells himself that now. Reminds himself that he is beyond the primal urge that lesser men cannot resist. There were days in his youth where he would wake up panting, coated in sweat and the seed of what he would not let become his downfall – but surely, he reasoned, he could not be held to blame for the inherent sin of his mind. All men are born with it. The measure of a person is whether they allow themselves to fall victim to their pleasures. And he will not. He will _not._

_Impurity or covetousness must not even be named among you, as is proper among saints._ He mouths the words into the sweat-soaked wrinkles of his pillow, unable to move in case the brush of linen against his erection proves too much. _Everyone who is sexually immoral or impure, or who is covetous, has no inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God. _'Forgive me,' he says, but it is Madeleine who smiles behind his eyes. He chokes, and twists; the flush of arousal runs down his body and earths in his groin with the blunt force of fist into muscle, and for a second, the mayor rises above him, gleaming with sweat in the candlelight. Javert moans, helpless, and grips the sheets but it is too late. His shame pulses out of him in waves, ecstasy that has nothing to do with pleasure. It leaves him shaking and limp, and worse, unsatisfied.

'Forgive me,' he says again, to himself, to no one. His body answers with a slow lick of derision, making him curl under his blanket. Maybe now it is over. But, no. The throb is lessened, but removed from its point it simply spreads through his skin, and urges him to stretch out, and relax. He cannot. He must fight it. So he stays curled, feels his manhood shrink slowly in the dark, covered in the cloying odour of his own debasement.


	2. Chapter 2

Weeks pass. He sinks himself into the routine of work, and tries to avoid any situation where he might see the mayor alone. The reports cannot be avoided, of course; he contemplated sending someone in his place, but only for a second. It would not be proper. Further, it would be cowardice. The measure of a man is not found in avoiding the tests sent by God, but in how he overcomes them. So each evening finds him present at the appointed time, standing in a military fashion, his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword. He forces himself not to avoid the man's eyes any more than usual. For his part, Madeleine seems to have taken their previous conversation on the matter to heart, and makes an effort to meet his eyes. Javert curses himself for having spoken. This would be easier, now, if he had stayed silent. He longs for the days of the mayor's loose attention. It is made worse by the fact that the man seems to have taken the conversation as licence to watch all he likes; Javert would have thought that having raised the matter, Madeleine would realise that he would prefer him to direct his attention elsewhere. But, no. When he leaves the office, the gaze remains on him. He never looks back, but his instincts are rarely wrong. They are God-given and honed by a lifetime of being on the outside, watching the world. The man means something for him, and it is hell itself. Some days, he tells himself it is simply curiousity on the mayor's part, or an extension of mutual suspicion. Other days – other nights - he believes the man capable of wilfully riding him to the floor before Satan's throne, and depositing him there in writhing agony.

There is nothing to do but spy. If his suspicions are confirmed, the problem can be removed. It is not a decision he takes lightly, because each moment spent near the man, whether he is aware of it or not, only adds to the torture of his dreams. But it must be done.

So, he watches. Madeleine is a good man, with the highest moral standards. His workforce is separated to avoid fraternisation, he attends Mass without fail, he distributes his wealth as if he hates to have money. Javert walks the streets and hears the man's name sung in praise. He waits for a bad word, a hint of suspicion from someone other than himself. But the only dissension comes from those who do not profit from Madeleine's benefice, and voices such as those are not to be listened to.

He examines the man's face, as if the key to unlocking the problem lies in the wrinkles of his skin. But there is no truth to be found there. It is a face that plagues him, awake or asleep, and the details are by now so firmly entrenched in his mind, he can no longer separate what he thinks, and what he wants. There is only that gentle smile, and the unwelcome warmth it brings. He would curse that smile, if he could justify such a thing to himself.

Sunday again. Mass has always been a duty he will perform as well as any other he undertakes. He listens to the Father with unwavering ears, and does not allow his gaze to fall from the man in the pulpit above, not even with Madeleine seated in front of him, a single yard away. Close enough that he could reach forward and wrap his fingers in those curls without extending his arm to any effort. He closes his eyes when it is required, and prays forgiveness for the hollow platitudes he offers to God. They never used to be so empty, but now his wooden heart craves fire in the night. He prays for the strength to resist, even as his ears burn with the low rumble of Madeleine's saintly offerings in front of him.

They are released into the weak winter's sun. He waits on the path from the church door, as is his custom. The people of the town file past, nodding their heads to their chief of police. He finds it strange, this show of respect, to a man they see as little more than a dog. Sometimes, when a proffered smile is more like a grimace, he wonders if they glimpse past the uniform. As if a whoreson's pedigree is written under the blue and gold, simply because there can be no other type of person who would wish to become a policeman. He is protected by the uniform, and his sword, and such glances do not hurt as once they should have. He is above such things.

'Inspector. Are you quite well?'

'Monsieur le Maire?'

Madeleine has not been tense with him for two months, and the smile has its customary touch of warmth. Not the polite warmth he shows to the women, either. There is something darker about it, but not sordid. As if they shared a secret, or at least, the promise of one to come.

'A simple enough question, I would have thought?'

'I am quite well, monsieur.'

'Good. Good.'

Madeleine puts his hands behind his back. Javert stands erect, and watches the town folk. He does not expect wrongdoing, of course, and these faces are long since imprinted on his memory. It is simply a habit hard to break, and it is easier than meeting the mayor's gaze.

'Would you consider granting me a small favour, Inspector?'

Images from last night's dream flash to mind. Would he mind bending over, and allowing the other man to lower his trousers? Would he mind falling to his knees, and letting those fingertips run over his chest? Would he mind climbing on to the bed, and waiting like a dog to be mounted? Javert blinks, and looks to the grass growing thick around a forgotten man's tomb. He should walk back inside, and go to confession. Maybe if he unburdened his conscience before God, and meant it, this really could be over.

'Of course, Monsieur le Maire. You need only ask.'

'Come and take supper with me this evening. My housekeeper is away, and with no work on Sunday...' he spreads his hands, as if the Lord's day of rest is a normal excuse to impose such a thing. Javert considers asking whether his housekeeper usually entertains him in the evening, and is that why he should suddenly find himself lonely? But that would imply something improper with the woman, and he could never do so. 'Only if you are not otherwise engaged, of course.'

'I have no engagements, monsieur. Of course I will join you, if that is what you wish.'

That afternoon, he polishes his boots. His sharpens his sabre, and makes sure every button is correct on his coat. He oils the leather of his belt, and starches the collar of his shirt. Everything is laid ready for the morning. He tries not to consider how much worse the following week will be, if he is not allowed his one half-day of respite from the man. He reads instead, and forces his attention to stay on the words. The Bible, today, for it is Sunday. 1 John, 1:9_. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness_. Good, that is good. Acts, 3:19. _Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord_. Yes. The refreshment of the Lord is all he has craved; that he might live this life irreproachable, and be welcomed to somewhere better when his time is over. Though, is it a sin to be so selfish? To strive for perfection in this life, only to gain in the next? But he does not think he is guilty of that altogether. He is of the police not simply for his own ends, but to protect those – even those who give in to their weaknesses – who need it, from those who would exploit them.

1 Peter, 2:11. _Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul_.

Javert weighs the Bible in his hands, suspended within the words. Yes, he has read them before. He has read all of them before, under the fingers of Monsieur Guerin, who taught him to read from these tracts. This one is one he returns to, and always has; he learnt it in the morning, in the sunlight, after another night with the animals in the dark. He remembers how it struck him then, the pure note of a single bell that rung through him with its truth. It strikes him now, but the echo through his soul is the sound of a whisper in a cathedral. It fades into the walls, and the cavern remains empty.

He cannot deny the passions of the flesh are waging war against him. He cannot deny being an exile, he cannot deny that his life is a sojourn between the places he is sent. His gypsy blood lets him take to it, though he tempers the distaste at that thought with the knowledge that duty is duty, wherever it may be found. He is not at liberty to choose a home, even if he found one that suited him. Home is the law, is it not? And now the Lord tells him, in law written since the start of time, that men like him need to be ever more guarded against the Devil's hold on his soul.

He shuts the book, and places it carefully on the small table next to his chair. It sits, innocuous and terrible. His fingers curl around the wooden arms to either side, and he stares into the fire. Yes. It is written, and so shall it be done.

###

Madeleine greets him warmly, and not as properly as he would like. He wears no coat, simply a waistcoat over a white shirt. And no cravat. Javert does not look at the patch of skin uncovered by the open neck of his shirt, and merely bows, as decorum indicates.

'Come, come. It is cold, and there is no need to stand on ceremony. Your hat, sir, and your coat. Your cane may rest by the door.'

It is charitable to call it a cane, and not the weighted weapon it is. Javert inclines his head, and steps into the warmth. The fire is high, no doubt built up to accommodate a guest. A quick glance around the parlour shows that the mayor, as expected, is a man of personal frugality.

'Supper will be a simple affair, I'm afraid. I was left with enough stew to last a lifetime. But it is good, and there is bread.'

He is not sure how he is expected to respond, other than as courtesy demands. 'It will more than suffice, I am sure.'

There is a moment where they stand, and simply regard each other. Madeleine wears an expression he can only describe as 'happy', as though he, Javert, were a prized pupil who has achieved something deserving of affection. Or, he supposes, a young dog that needs a pat on the head. He tries not to fidget under the scrutiny, and merely returns the gaze. In the end, Madeleine laughs, and indicates the chairs by the fire.

'Please, sit. Will you take wine?'

'Water will do. I thank you, Monsieur le Maire.'

'Oh, come now, Javert. Not even tea?' The man looks wounded, though the smile remains. Javert falters, then inclines his head once more. 'Sit, then. I'll just be a moment.'

He sits. He has nothing to do with his hands, so folds them in his lap. The heat from the fire is uncomfortable on his legs, but it would be rude to move the chair. He waits. There is no point to trying to divine the reason for this meeting, at least from Madeleine's point of view. For his own part, he will use it as an opportunity to further encourage, or assuage, his doubts about the man. If even a morsel of information can help push him to one side or the other, it will not be a wasted evening.

'There.'

'Thank you.'

It is hot, and unsweetened, and black. Exactly as he takes it. Madeleine has forgone his wine in favour of tea, also. He watches him drink, then set his cup aside. 'I trust your free afternoon has been enjoyable?'

'Yes. Thank you.'

'I thought Father LeBlanc's sermon particularly refreshing this morning.'

'Indeed.'

'He chose uplifting hymns.'

'Yes.'

Madeleine's finger taps on the arm of his chair. Silence reigns for a moment. Javert cannot help but notice the fading of the smile, and the cinch around his own nerves twisting a little tighter. Never the greatest conversationalist, as he never practises the art, the silence weighs his thoughts and smothers anything he might have ventured to say.

'You are conscientious in your attendance of Mass, Javert. Do you enjoy it?'

He blinks at this. 'I had not thought…yes. I suppose so.' Enjoyment, it seems to him, is not the point of the service. Though he sometimes fails to remember what enjoyment is, unless it is the satisfaction of a cell occupied by someone who deserves it.

Madeleine frowns. 'I find it a joyous experience. I confess, I had not considered that it could be less so.'

'I did not say it wasn't, monsieur.' Javert sighs, and picks up his cup. Providing a counter-argument is, at least, something he can do. 'I think you fail to see, at times, that other people's joys do not always align with your own.'

'Ah.' The smile is back. 'You are talking about my plans for the town.'

'I wasn't. But as an example, it could be useful. That your joy in providing for others may not bring the outcome you so desire. Or that others desire.'

'You believe helping people is not what others want?'

He gives a snort, without thinking. 'I know so, monsieur. What others want is to profit. If that desire works in parallel with your Christian charity, then so be it. But if it does not, I foresee greater opposition than you do, I believe.'

Madeleine shakes his head. 'You should have more faith, Javert. In people, I mean. While they may not see what I see at present, there is always the hope that things will be evident to them in time. That better education means better health, and then they may find their profit in an improved workforce.'

'You assume there will be work enough for these people. That business can expand to accommodate their needs. You do not seem to consider that more education may lead to ideas that damage the stability of the town.'

'You would keep people in ignorance, to promote stability?' Madeleine's eyebrows raise gently. 'You surprise me, Javert.'

'That is not what I meant.' He looks down at the cup in his hand. He can see tealeaves in the bottom, and puts it aside at once. 'If the events of '93 tell us anything, it is that ignorance creates upheaval. But there are different types of ignorance, Monsieur Le Maire. And I believe…that I am not the man to discuss their intricacies with you.'

'Why ever not? Surely you are not an ignorant man.'

'I would hope not.' But he cannot be sure. The threat of it in his youth stains him even now, and he can acknowledge, also, his lack of interest in politics beyond the police force. 'I simply mean that a gentleman such as you would find no interest in my opinions.'

'You do me a great disservice, Inspector. That you should think I would not care for a man's opinion, just because he reports to me? I would take offence, if I didn't know you were a humble man.'

Javert feels his brow quirk, outside of his control. He has hoped he is humble enough, but not too much so. 'I did not mean to cause offence. My apologies, monsieur.' He murmurs it, and digs his fingers into his leg, a silent reminder to watch his words.

'No offence, Inspector. I will fetch supper, and we will speak freely. A pleasant way to end the week, yes?'

'Indeed,' he says, quietly, but Madeleine is already out of his chair and walking to the kitchen. Javert allows himself one moment to rest his head back, and close his eyes, and make a plea to the stars for deliverance. But only a moment. He is lost, and is honest enough to know it.

#

When the door of his apartment closes, he lets himself fold to his knees. His head drops back, his hat falls unnoticed to the floor. The permanent ache flared into painful life two hours ago, and maybe it has to get worse before it gets better. It is the only justification he can offer, the only thing that makes this bearable.

He imagines Madeleine behind him, slipping his coat off his shoulders. He would leave it across his back, pinning his arms. It would be his hand that loosed the buttons, running slow and sure over the bulge in his trousers. His hand that slipped into the heat between his legs, and wrapped around his cock. He would thumb the head, and start to stroke, and his breath would be hot on the back of his neck. Perhaps he would bite at the skin above his collar, or maybe he would loosen the stock and sink his teeth into the join of neck and shoulder. He would press close until they were flush together, and whisper in his ear, and all the time, he would pull, and play, and tease, until the pressure was too much to bear. He would yank his shirt up at the front, so he could watch the mess he'd force him to make. He'd like it, that white stain on his belly. He'd pull his fingers through, and make Javert taste it. He'd say, _I watch you because I like it. Because I want to do this to you._ Javert thinks of the things he wishes Madeleine might want him for, and cries out into the back of his hand as release finally makes him free.

#

The cart overturns. Javert watches Madeleine's muscles swell under his coat, the way his shoulders take the weight, the contraction of his back. And the eyes, focused and pained as his face strains. The animalistic groan is so close to his private imaginings that for a moment, the world swims into a different kind of focus. But the cart is pulled free of the mud, and it snaps him back to the reality of those long-held suspicions. He can no longer, in good conscience, ignore them. So he writes a letter, and as he waits for a reply, forces himself to look away from the man's face. Now if he examines anything, it is his hands.

They are curious things. He is a gentleman, so they should be fine. He owns a factory, so they should be rough. But they are both. Their finery comes from the shape, and the grace with which he uses them. They may be calloused in places, and uneven around the nails at times, but Javert finds himself using them as a barometer of the man, and his activities. If the nails are dirty, Madeleine has been out helping the farmers while the weather is bad. If they are cut neatly, and the skin scrubbed pink, he has been meeting with other gentlemen of the town, no doubt to discuss improvements to the hospital, or for expanding education of the poor's young. He is not sure what he thinks of these hands. Maybe that they would be damning; that hands capable of lifting that much weight must surely have a tell-tale mark on them somewhere. A galley print, or a scar, or something he could place from the days of Toulon. But he never looked at hands in Toulon, and imagining the touch of a convict leaves him cold.

It is Saturday, and he watches them as he speaks. Madeleine is acting strangely. Since that evening at his house, he has always been proper, but the chill of formality had melted into an ease that Javert found terrible, and wonderful. But now it is two weeks since he saved Fauchelevent's sorry life, and some of the rigidity has returned to the man. It was so bad last week that he found himself wondering if the mayor had somehow learned the contents of his letter to the Prefecture. He dismissed it as impossible, but the thought rears its head again now, as Madeleine sits straight, and still, and perfectly, politely, distant.

He finishes his report. A moment of silence, then a nod from the mayor. Javert does not move.

'Are you well, Monsieur le Maire?'

His fingers – stained with oil today, and the signs of a vigorous attempt at removing it – stop in the air, on their way to retrieving a pen. He glances up, and Javert looks away. 'Quite well. Thank you, Inspector.'

There is cautious surprise in the response, and Javert replays his question as the man might have heard it. His fingers tighten on his sword when he realises it could be taken as a enquiry not related to his present condition. As if he, Javert, would ever ask 'are you well?' as a truly personal sentiment. 'Forgive me, sir. I meant-' he is not sure what he meant. All week, he has thought of asking, only in such a way as to imply _I have you now_,_ Valjean_. But that is not how it came out. It came out as if he were a man that cared.

'-yes?'

'You do not seem yourself.'

It is a weak response, and he knows it. But there are no words for anything else. Only the actions that leave him flushed with guilt can express that.

But if he is not mistaken, he is not the only guilty one in this room. Madeleine's eyes flit to the door, then back. 'It has been a trying week, Javert. That is all.'

He can find no reply. Or at least, nothing that would say anything useful. So after leaving the silence to itself for a moment, he bows deeply, with respect. 'Then I shall not detain you further, monsieur. Good evening.'

For the first time in months, he feels no weight of watching on his back. It makes him want to hesitate at the door, but he does not. Madeleine makes no sound, not even to return the pleasantry. Javert crosses the factory floor, the sound of his footsteps as hollow as the pit opening inside him. With one hand on the door, he falters, and stops. And looks up.

Madeleine is framed in the glass of his office windows. His face is clear, and his eyes unwavering. They lock with his own, and Javert's mind shudders to a halt. For a long moment, he thinks nothing. Is aware of nothing, feels nothing but the heaviness of the other man's regard. And he knows, as surely as he knows himself, that Madeleine is his double in this. That the walls have fallen away, and in that instant, they see each other.

He breaks, and pushes his way into the cold air that must surely clear this away. It is sharp enough to make him gasp, though he could not say, and remain honest, that it is the air that causes the hitch in his breath. For a while, he stands and breaths, and welcomes the chill down his throat. The stars hang above as ever, cold and immovable as they shine down on him.

He looked down in Toulon. A man looked up. Their eyes had met, then. This is not the same. He tells himself, _it is not_. But how can he be himself, and deny what he knows to be true? When the walls of hubris are stripped away, he is left only with the truth. But that is not terrible enough, on its own. He has already written the letter, has already had his doubts. No, the horror comes from what will never be laid in ink, never spoken, or voiced in touch. That he is praying, has been praying, for it _not_ to be true.

He falls into bed, and searches for Madeleine. The guilt rises at once, but it is easier to bear than the image of the man behind the glass. He should have seen it months ago; the face hidden in plain sight, with only the slightest layer to deflect attention. He did see it months ago, and now anything will suffice to make him unsee it. So he searches for the lie, and tries to ignore the tight weight of shame anchored in his chest, pulling him from grace.

Madeleine in his ear, with the hard mattress of his bed acting as the man's strong chest. Hot, wet kisses on his neck, and the sheet bunched between his legs, a fragile reminder of how empty this is. The heat behind his eyes is more than he finds in his body, but he screws his face tight, and tries again. Madeleine's smile, which never fails to glow. Those hands that gave him food, and gestured in the air the night they took supper, and debated into the early hours. The way he laughed, and scoffed, and made his rebuttals until they were no longer mayor and policeman, but friends. Javert had never known hours like those, and while they were his downfall – no, they were not. He had been falling before then. And now he is here, praying as he sins; as he writhes, and arches, and wishes for freedom. There is sweat on his throat, on his chest, and he rolls to press his face into the pillow, because if he cannot see God, then maybe God will overlook him this time. Faster, harder, his breath coming in ragged, desperate pants; the fluid on his palm releases its scent, and he tastes salt…and in an instant, Toulon rises in his thoughts. Madeleine sinks, and it is Valjean at his back. Rough slave hands that pin him down, with their blisters and calloused palms, dry skin catching on his cock. He fights for the calm grace of the mayor, but 24601 will not be denied. Javert is on all fours, with a hand on the back of his neck, and teeth biting at his shoulder blade. Sweat, and heat, and he forces the stroke until his body is taut like a hanged man's rope. He thrusts his hips into his hand, but Valjean laughs roughly in his ear, and Madeleine is nowhere to be found. He tries and tries, long after it starts to hurt. His groans turn from the pleasure he hates, to a physical pain that is both nothing, and far worse. Still, he tries, until there is nothing in him but defeat. Release is impossible.

He collapses onto rumpled sheets, twisted all the way through like a rusty lump of scrap iron. The sweat cools on his neck, but he can still smell salt, and taste it in the air.

He has always been afraid to think the jails would never leave him, and now it seems he was right.


	3. Chapter 3

He never sees Madeleine. The skirmish over the street woman finished the job that Fauchelevent's cart started, and now he does not know whether it is the mayor avoiding him, or he avoiding the mayor. Probably, it is both. Even the reports have fallen by the wayside; on one evening, he was unavoidably detained by a tavern brawl that refused to end, and someone went in his place. The day after, a message was delivered, telling him that it was no longer necessary to report in person. He was trusted, his work was sound. Only come in an emergency, and in the meantime, send written information every night_._ It was a ridiculous, spiteful, note, that he had twisted in his hand at once. It took more time to write a report than speak it, and wasted the effort of an underling to deliver it. It was not efficient, and prevented the immediacy of conversation in settling disputes. No, this was an extension of the glacial treatment he had been made to endure since the night of the prostitute's arrest. He had no doubt of it then, or now. But, very well. His job was not to question, or object to a superior's command.

There was relief, at first. Surely now the yoke would be lifted, and life could return to the order it was supposed to be. That hope had lasted all of three days, before he could no longer deny that he burned as hot as ever. Hotter, even, as the man's absence seemed to stoke the agony of desire. If there was ever proof needed of his assured end in the pits of Hell, that was surely it. He no longer needed to see the mayor to be affected by him.

So it has been. So it will continue to be, it seems; there has been no reply to his letter to the Prefecture, and so no end to this Purgatory of the unknown. Yet the further he gets from the day of writing the thing, the less sure he is of the outcome. On the day itself, he would have sworn on the Bible, on the civil code, on the buttons of his uniform, that Madeleine was Jean Valjean. Now…well, he had been angry. And still is -more so, even - over the man's intervention on the woman's behalf. But saving the old man's life, taking the hussy to hospital and keeping her from his own clutches – they are not the actions of a convict.

He tells himself this, and does not know if it is simply a recurrence of not wanting to believe it. Because when he lays it out in his mind, neat and ordered, his doubts are as valid as his proofs. But then there was that moment in the factory, where he saw it. Where he felt it, in such a way as there could be no doubt. Valjean felt it too, and he knows it. But what proof, this? Nothing he can write as evidence, or explain to a superior. He might as well admit how the man robs him of sleep, in the guise of lust with one face, and denial of release in another. He would admit it, if it would bring peace. But they would think he has taken leave of his senses, and he could not blame them for it. It is likely the truth.

#

Sunday. He has avoided the church since Madeleine's anger began. There is no sense in subjecting the man to his presence, and no glory to be found in asking forgiveness with a heart that does not mean it. He wants benediction, but it is not just to ask for something he has no means to control. Or perhaps he does, but if so, he has not found the way of it. But it is not in church. He has tried that. So he stays at home, and reads the Bible in his spare shirt while the other is washed for work.

This is how Madeleine finds him, an hour before lunch.

His door is ajar; the better for hearing the charwoman return. He reads by a small fire, in a chair angled so he can see the entrance. Still, he does not look up when he hears a knock, because there is no one else who would call.

'Enter, madame,' he says, quietly, and raises himself to stand, as is polite.

Madeleine emerges before him, dressed against the winter's chill, impossibly large in the doorway of his small apartment. He brings the smell of snow, and a hint of fresh air that does its best to subdue the heat from the fire. Javert is caught in horror, half-standing, not properly dressed and undone by the sudden appearance. 'Monsieur le Maire-'

His first thought is _shirt_, because his top button is not fastened. There is no cravat, and no waistcoat on him. His cheeks flush immediately, and he grabs for his leather stock, newly oiled and left to the side for the morning.

'No, no, Javert. There is no need. My apologies-'

'No, sir, it is of no-'

'You'll ruin your linen with the oil, please-'

He is already fastening the thing. The man is right. It will be ruined. But, it is done. He realises that the patch on the elbow of this shirt will be visible as he raises his arm to fasten the buckles, but it is too late now. He angles his body in the hope the mayor will not have noticed it already. A glance away from it suggests he has, and Javert is not sure which of them appears the more mortified. If his face is anything like the curled-up ball of it in his chest, it is probably him.

'I beg your pardon for one moment, monsieur.'

'Of course, Inspector.' Madeleine has not removed his hat. Javert tries to ignore the way this makes him twitch, as he enters the next room to find another waistcoat. A moment later, and he is, at the least, respectable. He re-enters the parlour, and attempts to pretend there is no red on his face, though he can feel it there.

'Monsieur le Maire. How can I help?'

He has taken his hat off. But he still remains in the open doorway, and looks hesitant. Javert cannot find a single reason why he might have come here, not least because his presence is wildly inappropriate. 'Please accept my apologies, Javert. I have no right to disturb you in your home. You must allow me to replace your shirt.'

Javert raises his eyebrows, attempting to suggest that he has no idea what the man is talking about. Madeleine frowns, and drops his hand to his side in obvious frustration, his hat caught in his fingers. 'Come now. You have oiled your collar, and it is my doing. I will replace it.'

'Monsieur le Maire.' It takes no effort to keep the offence from his tone, though he feels it keenly. 'Please, speak. You did not come to talk about my attire. And do close the door, sir. You look cold.'

Madeleine stares at him. And then barks a laugh, though there is little humour in it. He closes the door. 'You would belittle me with politeness. So be it. It is fair earned.'

'I would never belittle you, monsieur. Please, remove your coat and sit. Would you like tea?'

'No, I would not like tea. Though I thank you for your hospitality. It is impeccable, as I would expect.'

He sits. Javert's lips thin to a line against the sarcasm. He remains standing until the man is still, then sits also. It feels wrong to not keep his feet in front of him, in a way it did not when they passed the evening at the mayor's house. But that was an appropriate situation, where this is not.

'I came because…well-' Again, the uncomfortable expression. 'I have not seen you at church.'

'Ah.' Well. There is sense to it. 'You fear for my soul, monsieur?'

'No. I am sure your soul is a more well-ordered place than most men can claim. Though I would encourage you, of course, not to neglect it. No, that is not - - what I mean, Javert, is that it has been some weeks since I have seen you, and I would not like to imagine you are keeping yourself from the service because of me.'

He takes a moment to process all possible meanings to this. In the end, he can only reply, 'Sir, I believe my religious duties are my own affair. They do not fall under your purview as judge of sections of the municipal police code.'

To his credit, Madeleine takes the unworthy jibe without rancour. Javert feels small for having given into the urge, and has to force himself not to lower his eyes. So he receives the smile full in the face, and feels all the worse for it.

'No. Well, you are right. But I have not come today as a judge, or even as a mayor, I suppose. I simply feel we have…' Madeleine fidgets in his seat. Javert is lost once more, but in a wholly different way. Whatever this conversation is, it is not one he has played in his mind previously. He can do nothing but wait for an explanation. One that seems to be causing the mayor some difficulty. '…I believe I was right, you know. I know I am. I am not sorry for refusing to allow you to take Fantine to jail.'

Javert does look down, now. 'I would never ask you to apologise for it.'

'But you are offended, still, at my actions?'

'Yes.'

'Of course you are!' Madeleine stands abruptly, and begins to pace. Javert watches, bewilderment finally overcoming earlier embarrassment. 'I know I can always count on you to be honest, Javert. I wish I could count on you attempting to _understand_.'

'What do I not understand? The woman-'

'_Fantine_-'

'-was a streetwalker, who assaulted a citizen. I was there. I saw it. I was within my rights to take her, and you stayed my hand for no other reason than a soft heart, monsieur.' He stands now too, hands by his sides, wishing for his sword to rest them on. But he takes care to direct his eyes forward, and can only see Madeleine pacing in and out of the edges of vision. 'It was not just.'

'To you?'

'To the _law_, monsieur. She committed a crime; by all rights, she should be in jail. You took her, and mocked justice as you did. Would you pardon a murderer next, if you liked the way he uttered his excuse? Once started, there is no end to these matters. The people will take their liberties, and look to you for freedom. That is all.'

'That is all? Javert, how can that be _all?_ The woman was in that condition because of my failings towards her! You will permit me to right a wrong, surely?'

'It is not for I to permit you anything, monsieur. You are above my station. I merely draw your attention to an injustice that you seem unable to countenance, and state that I acted within my rights. You insulted me, sir. But that is of no importance. You have made your decision, and I have no authority to unmake it; nor would I, if I did.'

Madeleine stops. Javert feels his eyes on him once more, but will not turn to meet them. 'You would not?'

'No, I would not.'

'Why is that?'

He hesitates, but the words will not be denied. 'You are the mayor of this town. I am your subordinate. The world would be damned if every inferior took it into his head to question his superior. I do not agree with your actions, monsieur, and I have no hesitation in saying so, but that is the end of it.'

This is not a lie. It is not a truth either, or at least, some might argue that. But if Madeleine is who he thinks he is, then it is not a matter of questioning a superior. Indeed, it is the inferior who has made the error, and will answer for it.

If it transpires that he is wrong…no. He saw it. He cannot be wrong.

Madeleine's mouth is hanging open. After a moment, he seems to remember himself, and closes it. There is a huffed breath, and he comes to stand in front of him. 'You are not my inferior, Javert.'

'That is not so.'

'It is so. I…esteem you highly, Inspector. Subordinate, I will accept, but not the other.'

His voice is soft. Javert cannot stop his frown, nor the confused edge he hears in his tone when it breaks the silence.

'You compliment me, monsieur. There is no need.'

'I think there is. I think, perhaps, you deserve more of them.'

He has no words to return. His neck warms though. It is more discomfort than anything else, and he shifts his weight on his feet. Madeleine watches his face, and then breaks away with a small laugh. 'I have embarrassed you. My apologies once again.'

He steps back. Javert breathes. The mayor does not avert his eyes. 'I wished to rectify this situation, but this was not an appropriate venue. We have each said our piece; come, let us put it behind us. I was angry, I admit. You have admitted the same. We will not agree, but it is done.'

He cannot say no. It would be churlish, and go against his position. So he nods, even if there is a hesitation before it. 'As you say, Monsieur le Maire.'

'Good. Good. And you will resume your nightly reports?'

'It is not I that-' He catches the warning glance, that admits in an instant the man's acknowledgement of his own fault. '-yes.'

'And you will come back to church?'

'As it please you.'

'It is not about pleasing me, Javert. I simply do not wish you to feel you must avoid my presence. If that is what it is. I do not claim to know with certainty, but- - well. That is how it seems.'

His uncertainty is clear, thawing his air of absolute authority. There is almost a plea about it, and Javert has no idea how to appease him, other than by giving his assent, which he has already done. 'I will not avoid your presence.'

'Good. That is good. Well, then. I shall leave you to your Sunday. Good day to you, Inspector.'

Javert remains in his bow even after the door has closed. He listens to the receding footsteps as he straightens. Only when the silence is once more absolute does he retake his seat. His fingers work his stock back off his neck, absentminded as he stares into the fire. He touches the spots of oil ringing the circle of his collar. The leather is pliant in his hand, warm and soft. And the world is once again remade, built on sand around the words of a mayor, who is a convict, who has come to his house to make amends for something he admits he is not sorry for. What devil is this man? What two-faced wretch, who furthers his insult in one breath, and offers sincere compliments in the next? It is unbearable. And nothing more so than what he saw as the man turned to leave; an undeniable flick of the man's attention, from his face to the leather tied around his neck. He would think it was a furtherance of his intention to replace the shirt, if it were not for the tight swallow he observed, the blanche of his eyelids before he hid his face.

He should not be surprised. They saw each other in the factory. Perhaps everything was laid bare, even that which he would rather die than admit. The thought mortifies him, but his brain is as traitorous as his blood, and will not forget the hidden glance stealing downwards, the throat working up and down. In desire? He cannot hope for it.

And maybe it was not that. Maybe it reminds the man of his chains, and made him feel the weight of what is to come. Javert's heat subsides at once, and he allows his hand to pull over his face, once. Yes. Maybe it was that.

This is intolerable.

#

That night, he lingers at his book. It is only the knowledge that he must work tomorrow that makes him put it aside, and give himself to his bed. There is no surprise at the thoughts waiting for him, only resignation. He has been pushing them aside all afternoon, and his nerves are alive with them now, pulsing under his skin like the drumbeats of an approaching army. The mayor stands in front of him, shameless as his eyes move over the leather fastened at his neck. He says nothing, but his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, teasing himself. Javert imagines his shallow breaths, and the way he himself would just stand, and let him look. Until Madeleine's fingers ran down his jaw, his throat, push under the leather and curl, an unbreakable grip as he forced him to his knees. Brute strength in those muscles, and he would laugh, wild and cruel like a beast…

Javert stays his hand on his belly, as the tide of arousal ebbs away. It is well. He needs to sleep. But when he closes his eyes, Madeleine returns. _I esteem you highly, Inspector. _He groans, and rolls to his side. His prick pushes against his nightshirt, full and greedy. The fabric is rough, but his shame does not seem to care. _You deserve more compliments_. Yes, he thinks. Do me the compliment of pressing me into this mattress, you damned rogue. Use those hands to bare my flanks, and I will let you say whatever you like to me.

His cock twitches in approval. Javert's teeth close on a fold of his pillow as he takes himself in hand, because any semblance of being anchored to this bed brings him closer to the climax he cannot find his way to. His strokes stopped being soft weeks ago, when desperation folded itself into his muscles and refused to move. _Please_, he thinks, reaching for the mayor's benevolent smile. _This time_.

He focuses on the compliment, and on the way Madeleine lowered his voice just a touch, to convey his sincerity. He thinks of those clean hands, and brown eyes looking hungrily at his throat, and pinches himself on the sensitive patch under the head of his cock. It brings a gasp, and his body judders into the touch, rolls him to his front. He spreads his knees without thinking, pushes his face into the pillow. His finger traces the slit, then down, his nail scratching gently along the throbbing vein; it makes him keen and rock, and yes, _yes_, it will be all right. Those words were the key, and he pushes into his fist without waiting. Madeleine's voice, Madeleine's hand. And for the first time, he imagines leaning forward into a kiss. Just a simple kiss. The man would put a hand at his neck, and draw him in with that smile, and-

-and 24601 laughs, and bites his lip. And that's the end of it.

He could scream in frustration. He might do it. His blood roils under his skin, his muscles are tight, his balls ache. But no sound will come. Everything is locked within him, compressed into the bone-deep pain of unsatisfied flesh. He cannot remove the convict from his sweat-soaked prison, and the creature has him chained. No way forward, no means to go back.

'It is hell.' He speaks the words to make sure he still can. Valjean sneers in his head, saying he knows nothing of hell, but it is not true. Satan's palace can be no worse than this. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to force the man away, but all he does is laugh.

#

He stands in the square the next day, snow falling all around as a prisoner shakes on the pole below him. A thief, as it happens. The satisfaction of a man well-punished is not lost to him, and he is glad of it.

'From Paris, monsieur.'

The sender's address makes him pause. He had begun to think his claim was so outrageous it did not warrant a reply. Finally, freedom in his hands. The relief is so strong he can barely break the seal.

Not freedom in his hands. His world, in his hands. And he need only read the first few lines before the true horror of it sinks in, and he has to twist it away, crush it in his fingers.

Madeleine is not Jean Valjean. He was wrong. Everything he saw was wrong, and in an instant, he knows the future. His hubris will cost him all he has become, all he spent his whole life trying to be. Damned, and deservedly so. This is the price of weakness, and he has no choice but to pay it.


	4. Chapter 4

He does not hesitate in his duty. As soon as he is relieved in the square, he directs himself to the mayor's factory. It is the end of the work day and the sky is darkening, laden with snow clouds that threaten a new spill at any moment. The air is tinted with the weather, and people hurry from their work to their homes, wrapped against it as best they can. He walks tall, impervious in his jacket of royal blue, the one splash of colour in the street. The citizens give him a wide berth, glancing at him from under hats and shawls. He does not acknowledge the nods he receives from men, nor the uncertain eyes of the women. He barely sees where he walks.

The letter is folded into his pocket - it had taken some effort to pry the twisted remains from his fingers, but it would not be proper to walk the street with his tumult on display. It sits there like a stone; he would have destroyed it utterly, but it is evidence of a crime. He will produce it, if Madeleine asks. Maybe even if he does not. His guilt is written in its lines, and he will stand next to them. He will urge the man to strip him of everything. It is just.

He does not falter as he enters the factory. The foreman leaves him standing while he goes to see if Madeleine will receive him. Javert does not pace. He stands, and waits. At the man's nod, he mounts the stairs, and registers the door to the place closing behind him. Even without that, he would know they are alone. Everything sits silent, but he feels the walls leaning in to listen, the tools and the benches attuned to the words they know are coming. The world seems to wait for his fall, suspended until he asks for the axe to drop. When he leaves, he will no longer be Javert. Not this version of him.

'One moment, Javert. I was not expecting you until later.'

Madeleine has papers open in on his desk. The fire is nearly gone, allowed to die along with the work day. The man wears his coat buttoned, perhaps against the chill, or perhaps he was about to leave also. It is of no matter. This meeting cannot wait.

'Of course, monsieur.'

If Madeleine has registered anything unusual in his variance from routine, it does not show. Javert stands, and examines the wall above his bent head. The thought has come to him, of course, that this turn of events has at least freed him from himself. The convict can no longer impose himself on his thoughts. And if he did not incorrectly interpret the mayor's stolen glance that day in his lodgings, then…he does not know what. He will never ask for anything. The freedom from that problem is of no consequence at this point. If he had been asked last night whether anything could release the torture he has been in, he would have said no. Now, he knows he was wrong. To lose everything he has built his life on supersedes the desires of his weak flesh, and troubled soul. There is no consolation to be found. He is a criminal. A lifetime of reaching to the stars, and still no better than his birth.

Madeleine puts his pen down, and looks up with a smile. His fingers lock together, his forearms rest on the desk. He is open, ready to listen, benevolent. Javert looks away, and swallows the tightness in his throat.

'Monsieur le Maire. I have a crime to declare.'

He lowers his eyes. Madeleine waits; he can sense it.

'I have disgraced my uniform, monsieur. I have informed on a magistrate, a man of honour. I allowed anger to colour my senses, and make me sure of something any simpleton would see as false. I have tried to blacken the name of a good man, and in doing so, have ruined my own. I have come to request that you begin proceedings to have me removed from the police.'

Silence closes in. He does not raise his eyes. The air of waiting has turned to one of confusion. 'Javert, what are you talking about? Who have you informed upon?'

'You, Monsieur le Maire.'

'Me?'

'You.'

When the man says nothing more, he risks a glance. Madeleine looks at him with genuine amazement, a deep furrow marking a line between his eyes. He appears locked in place by it, his mouth frozen into a pout of bewilderment. 'I don't understand.'

'It is quite simple, monsieur. Some weeks ago, I allowed a long-held suspicion to translate itself into words. No…that is not correct. It did not happen by itself; it was I, Javert, who made the decision to do it. You saved the life of the man Fauchelevent, and then intervened on behalf of the prostitute. I was angry. You know this. I wrote a letter to the Prefecture in Paris, denouncing you.'

'Because I would not let you take her to jail?'

'No, sir. Because I believed you to have once been a convict. A man by the name of Jean Valjean, who broke parole eight years ago. He disappeared. I knew him when I worked as adjutant-general of convicts in Toulon. There are similarities in your looks, in your remarkable strength, in the way you drag your leg. I allowed these similarities to gain strength under my anger, and made a grave error. I do not ask forgiveness, Monsieur le Maire, but I beg your pardon. And request that you have me removed from my position.'

He says this to the floor. He can only imagine the anger that must be on Madeleine's face, and has no wish to see it. No matter, it is evident in the clipped tones with which he receives his reply. 'I assume you have received your answer from Paris?'

'I have.'

'And?'

'And they say I am mad. They are right.'

'Because you harboured suspicion?'

'Because the real Jean Valjean has been found.'

Madeleine's hands twitch on the desk. The movement in his peripheral vision forces his glance to move upwards. The mayor has turned red with anger. He lowers his gaze once more.

'The real Jean Valjean has been found.'

'Yes, monsieur. He had been hiding under the name Champmathieu. He was arrested for stealing apples, and recognised by another convict who had shared time with him in the galleys. Others have come forward. I have been called to Arras to provide evidence of my own recollection, but there seems no doubt. Jean Valjean has been found. He is not you.'

'You are sure of this?'

'I will not swear it until I lay eyes on the man, but the Prefecture appears convinced. His trial is tomorrow. I will carry out my duty by travelling there this evening, to give testimony in the morning.'

'And in the meantime, I am to have you dismissed?'

'It is just, Monsieur le Maire.'

He has said what he came to say, and falls silent. The mayor seems stunned, and also says nothing. Javert feels a ridiculous urge to fidget, and worse, to offer an apology. Obviously he has let the man down, insulted him gravely – in law, in thought, in deed – but a personal apology would not be appropriate.

'Javert-'

There is a set to the man's shoulders that looks like defeat. But as he is not defeated, perhaps it is disappointment.

'-you have surprised me, I admit. But I will not ask for your dismissal.'

'Monsieur…monsieur, you must.' He cannot keep the quiet plea from his tone.

'Why?'

'I have insulted you, sir. Committed a libel. Suspected a magistrate to have the lowest character.' Madeleine blinks at this last, but Javert presses on. 'I must be punished. _I_ have punished in my life, and would not hesitate to do so in your place. I must hold myself to my own standards, otherwise I am a false man. Monsieur, do not make me so.'

'You are not. Javert, you are _not_. It is the last thing you are.' Madeleine passes a hand across his forehead. 'I cannot, in good conscience, do what you ask. You have suspected a crime, and reported it. There is no shame in this; no, sir! No shame at all. You deserve a promotion, not dismissal. If every man were as conscientious, there would be less crime in the world.'

Javert feels his collar tighten, a now-familiar flush of heat begin to rise. Not in pleasure though, this time. 'Monsieur le Maire, you must.'

It comes out as little more than a whisper, but Madeleine shakes his head once, decisive. 'No. We have all made misjudgements in our lives, and this is but a minor one. You will return to your post immediately.'

He cannot make his feet move. Madeleine is staring at him with an expression of defiance, as if daring him to argue. The man's fist clenches and releases; a move normally linked with aggression, but in this case, seems to betray some other emotion. Javert forces himself into a bow. The movement tips his balance, and he is allowed to turn. Still, he waits. And though it is not his place to add more, cannot help but say, quietly, 'you do me an injustice, sir.'

He walks without seeing, his world turned upside-down. The mayor shows charity! It is not correct. Yet he, Javert, cannot help but feel glad at retaining his post, no matter how hard he told himself he could work the fields, and it would not matter. His relief is so strong, he does not hear the footsteps that hurry behind him, and only pauses when a hand grasps his elbow.

'What do you mean?'

'Monsieur le Maire?'

'How have I done you an injustice?'

The man is close, his hand tight. Javert glances down at it, but does not shake it away and the mayor does not remove it. 'As I have said, monsieur.'

'No. I don't understand. Explain it to me.'

There is a sensation not unlike his stomach trying to crawl out of his skin. For a long moment, he cannot bring himself to speak. But the mayor has asked, and he is no position to refuse. 'I have made an error. I have tried to rectify it, but you deny me. Now people will be correct in their assessment of me – when I am called a blackguard…well, from the mouths of criminals, this is no bad thing. Before, they would be wrong. But now, I will have to agree; yes, I am a blackguard. The fault is mine alone, and though I have tried to right my wrong – or at least, take just punishment for it – I am disallowed. Well. So be it. If I must bear this dishonour, then so I shall.'

He says this without looking at Madeleine, though he is very aware of his proximity, so close he can feel the man's breath on his cheek. The hand still holds his elbow; half an inch closer, and the mayor's front would be pressed along his side. The thought makes something turn over in him. He is in no state for pleasure, but it will remain, he knows, to be visited later.

'Javert, you are too hard on yourself. Your fault does not warrant your dismissal, and I will have no part of it. It is I you have reported against, so it is I who may decide what to do about it. I do nothing. Your service does you credit, sir. I wish you would believe it.'

Madeleine finally steps back, just a little. His voice raises from its tone of quiet calm, and takes a more jocular air. 'Come and dine with me this evening. Consider it punishment enough, if you like.'

Javert looks to him, incredulous. 'Monsieur le Maire, that is not a punishment. It is too generous.'

'Nonsense. I will eulogise on the merits of charity, and you will be cross. Come now, let us put this behind us.'

'I cannot. No, sir – please, do not misunderstand. I would accept your wishes, of course. But I must go to Arras this evening.'

'Ah, yes. This trial.'

'I will be back tomorrow, monsieur. If you wish to punish me then.'

Madeleine laughs, short and dry, and turns his head so their eyes meet. 'Tempting as that is, I may have business tomorrow.' He steps in once more, and Javert feels the buttons of his coat brush his arm. It can be no accident. 'Come in an hour, for tea. It will fortify you for your trip. And I should like to speak to you further on this.'

He swallows, his throat dry once more. He is aware that it is probably for a different reason. 'If that is what you would have me do.'

'I would.'

'Then…I will see you in an hour, Monsieur le Maire.'

Madeleine does not step back. Javert holds his gaze, pinned by it. There is something odd in the man's look. Not just his face, but his body. He looks calm; the remnants of a smile eases his face, and warms his eyes. But there is tightness to his jaw, and his shoulders are up. His frame speaks of anticipation, while his face is all amused patience. And of course, there is the solidity of his body, just inches away.

'Yes. An hour.'

'Yes.'

A sound from outside breaks the moment. He sees Madeleine swallow as he glances away, and takes the bare second to look over the tension in the other man. It is strange. But his insides tremble, and he knows there is red on his cheeks. If he is not mistaken, there is a shake to the mayor's hand. Forcing himself away takes physical effort, and it is all he can do not to lean on the wall outside the front door when he can finally escape.

One hour. He uses the time to arrange transport for the journey to Arras, and put his affairs in order at the police station for when he is away. There is some time to spare; he returns to his home, and for the first time in weeks, examines his face in the mirror. Examines in detail, not the perfunctory glance he uses as he shaves. He looks the same as ever, which seems odd. Every time he is near Madeleine, he is sure his filthy desires must be written on every line of his face, etched into his skin to be mocked and pitied forever. He takes heart from the fact it does not appear so; that, if this shame will not leave him, at least it is not as visible as he thought. He can still appear outwardly respectable, even if his soul is gradually being dragged from him, under the surface.

He must go. He turns the small mirror to the wall, and straightens his uniform jacket. This time tomorrow, his duty at the trial will be done. He can come back to Montreuil and be easy. Valjean will be where he belongs, and out of his thoughts forever. The man will die, either by the executioner's hand, or at the chain in Toulon. Either way, it is no concern of his. Out of mind, and he, Javert, free to resume his work under Madeleine. The prospect is…better. Not easy, by any means. But with his suspicions now gone – well, it is one less thing. The mayor should not have been so kind, but with his refusal to turn him out, the only amends he can make lie in redoubling his efforts to be a good servant. To the law, and, of course, the man.


	5. Chapter 5

He knocks on the door with some trepidation. He cannot imagine what needs to be said that has not already been. But he cannot ignore a direct request from the mayor; nor would he want to.

…and he is lying to himself. He is not here simply because of duty. The trepidation comes from not believing Madeleine could know that, or if he did, whether he would do anything but condemn him for it. But, so be it. He is condemned all ready, and by a higher power. And he has no intention of letting his desires be known.

'Come in, Javert. And thank you for agreeing to meet me. I know you must have things to arrange before you leave.'

He straightens from his bow, and tucks his hat under his arm. 'I have arranged all, Monsieur le Maire.'

'Good. Please, do, enter.'

The door shuts with a small click. Javert regards the man anew. He looks a little flustered, and still has his coat over his shoulders, though it is not buttoned. His hat is on the table, not hung, and the fire is new in the grate. So, he has not been here long.

'I will fetch the tea. Please, sit.'

He hesitates as the man leaves the room. 'Where is your housekeeper, monsieur?'

'She is running errands, I believe.' Madeleine's voice is relaxed as it drifts from the kitchen. 'As she does normally in the afternoons. I hardly dare enquire as to what they are.'

Javert wanders along one wall, examining the titles of books on the shelf. 'She may be taking liberties, monsieur. You should-'

'-I should…? Madeleine stands in the doorway with a tray, and a smile. 'I would not begrudge her some time to herself, even if I believed she were taking it.' He sets the tray down on the table by the fire. Javert can see the man's amused look is caused by his own expression, which is no doubt as exasperated as he feels. But he makes no comment, and Madeleine just chuckles. '_Pardon_ for one moment, Inspector. I will remove my coat, then I am all yours.'

The words cause a hitch of surprise in Javert's throat, coming from nowhere as they do. The break brings an audible _click_ as air escapes. Madeleine looks up. Their eyes lock. Javert looks away almost at once, but under his clothes, his skin starts to burn. He turns back to the books, but his ears tune helplessly to the man behind him. The hesitation in the step as he turns, then the sweep of a hat from the table, and the rustling of fabric out in the hallway. He curses his stupid body for making his reactions so plain, but it is too late to take it back.

'You are interested in books, then?' Madeleine is next to him, the sleeve of his jacket brushing the blue of his uniform. 'Forgive me, I always had you down as a more practical man.'

'I am. I much prefer action to reading. But I do read. A man must not be ignorant.'

'Mmm. I wonder, is that a common line of thought in the police?'

Javert cannot help a quiet snort. 'No.' He reaches a hand out, and taps the spine of one tract. 'You read Comte. For my part, I am not surprised.'

He is aware of Madeleine turning his face towards him, and feels, rather than sees, the amusement of him. 'For you to be unsurprised, means you have read him also.'

'Well.' He does not shrug. He reads what is available to him, and cannot afford an extensive library. 'I cannot bear the romantics. Philosophy is tolerable, even if I do not agree with the ideas of individuals.'

'Yes, I can well imagine the romantics do not suit you.'

They catch the eye of each other, then; Madeleine still smiles, but Javert cannot help but notice it is absent from his eyes. It seems the man is humouring him, or indulging in small talk until the point of this meeting is to be broached. Very well; let this move on. He faces him, his hand coming to rest naturally on his sword. 'My reading habits are of no matter, Monsieur le Maire. You wished to speak to me?'

'I…yes. I suppose I did.' The eyes flick away, and Javert frowns.

'You did _not_ wish to speak to me? Monsieur, you asked me to come.'

'Yes, of course. I do. I just – will you sit?'

He sits. Madeleine provides tea from the tray. He drinks some. The man himself is still standing, fussing around, and now this is less confusing, more irritating. 'Javert – wait, there is something…a moment, please.'

He stares into the fire, and finishes his tea. The truth is, he cannot tarry too long here; he cannot be late in setting off for Arras. And sitting when he is uneasy has never gone well; he stands again, and begins to pace quietly until the mayor comes back. When he does, it is with a package under his arm. Javert eyes it suspiciously at once, but Madeleine does not appear put off. 'As I said at the factory, I have business tomorrow. I fear it may take some time, so I wanted you to have this before I left. I was meaning to give it to you in a week or two; alas, circumstances have forced us to do this differently than I planned.'

Javert cannot move, and can barely stop glancing down at the parcel. 'Monsieur le Maire, I implore you, do not give me anything.'

'No, but I must. Please, Javert-'

'No sir, I cannot accept it. Quite apart from it not being right, it is especially not right given my error in judgement towards you recently. No, sir. I thank you, but no.'

Madeleine actually looks wounded. He registers this through his own discomfort, but he cannot countenance accepting this thing.

'You do not even know what it is, yet.'

'If I were a betting man, I would lay even money on it being a new shirt, monsieur.'

Madeleine laughs, and sets it down. 'Of course, you are right. But you will accept it, Inspector. It is my fault your last got ruined, and I will not hear otherwise. Come now, take this from me. It is less a gift, and more reparation. I will be insulted if you do not.'

'And I will be insulted if you insist upon it.' He draws himself up, and makes a turn for the door. It is rude to leave so abruptly, but it is painful, this exposure. Madeleine puts his hands on his hips, and Javert thinks that is the end of it. He moves behind the one armchair on his way to exit, and Madeleine stands motionless. Then, as he stops to bow before leaving, the man swivels on his heel, and steps close. On instinct, Javert moves back, out of striking range, only to find the wall behind him and the mayor moving into his space.

'Why will you not take this?' Madeleine is frustrated, bordering on vexed. The strange tension in his posture from earlier seems more pronounced up close; his shoulders are tight, and there is a deep furrow between his eyes. Javert remains as tall as he can, only his head turned away to avoid the proximity. 'Why must you be so unbearably stubborn, Javert?'

'I have no need of charity, Monsieur le Maire.'

'It is _not_ charity! I caused you to ruin that shirt, so-'

'You paid a visit to your chief of police, nothing more.'

'Oh, in the name of all things sacred-! Man, you cannot sit in your uniform, in your own home, on a Sunday, on the off chance the mayor might visit on a whim.' Madeleine moves closer, bringing his jacket into contact with Javert's. The frustration comes from him in waves, hitting with force, steeping into the weave of his uniform. His body wants to wilt under it, sag and soak it in, absorb this energy and make it a part of himself. But he resists instead, and keeps his back straight though his face is turned away.

'You are being ridiculous, Javert. And now I am going away for a while, and we must part on a disagreement.'

He swallows dryly. 'There is no need for a disagreement. You need simply to stop this, and all will be well.'

'Stop what? Stop _what?_ Look at me, Javert.'

He obeys, though it takes effort to make his head move. Madeleine's eyes are burning brown, and his stomach weakens, causing a tremor of excitement to run down his legs. 'I cannot force you to take anything from me. I just wish you would accept it willingly, and take no insult from a friendly gesture. Do you refuse recompense because you must earn every sou for yourself?'

'Yes.' This is no hardship to admit. There is even some defiance of his own. 'And because there is no shame in being poor, if it is honestly lived. Monsieur le Maire, I can replace my own shirt.'

His head comes forward to add emphasis to his statement. Nothing more. But Madeleine's moves too. Not even an inch; still, a clear movement forward. Javert freezes. The mayor does also, his features stuck in an expression of surprise, as if he had not meant to do that, but now cannot deny he did.

Everything is still. For long moments, there is no sound but the deep, rhythmic tick of the hallway clock. He counts five, ten, fifteen. And then, Javert feels a hand at his wrist. He does not look, does not dare pull his gaze from those eyes. But he feels his arm moved back, until it is pressed to the wall, and his body opened on one side to Madeleine's searching eyes.

'It is only a shirt. It is not expensive, not showy. It is entirely suitable.' The mayor's voice is low, just a murmur, and Javert feels it earth in his body like the far off rumble of approaching thunder. His eyes drop closed, and he curses quietly in his mind as he starts to harden. Madeleine's voice is closer, his breath warm on his cheek. 'It is fit for purpose, Javert. And it would please me if you would accept this.'

He does not know if they are still talking about the damned shirt. He feels Madeleine's leg touch the inside of his knee, and squeezes his lips tight together. 'Monsieur-'

'Sssh.' Firmer now, easing his leg apart just a little. 'You told me –'

There is a hint of trepidation now, as if the man himself is not sure what he is doing. Javert is dimly aware that he could tell him to stop, with little harm done. But he does not.

'-you told me once I had been watching you. Well, you were right. But you have been watching me too. I have seen you, and not just then. Since. You have watched me in the street, in the square, in my factory. Your eyes Javert, they are always on me.'

He tries to find his voice. It feels stuck in a knot in his throat, a tangled snarl of words that promise no sense. 'I will desist, monsieur. If you wish it.'

'And if I do not?'

'Then-' He sucks in a breath. Madeleine's thigh slides up the inside of is. Not all the way, but there can be no accident to it. He can find no way to explain it but with the truth. And it is a truth writ large in the pulsing warmth standing hard between his legs, and the answering bulge of the mayor's trousers. '-please, monsieur. We cannot.'

Madeleine's lips touch his jaw as they move to his ear; he can feel the softness, the gentle wet caress of his breath against his stubble. His eyes close again, and in the storm of his mind, he offers an empty prayer for strength. The man's voice is little more than a whisper, breathed into the centre of him. 'We can. We break no laws with this.'

'But-' damn him, it is true. 'It is – _oh_.'

The thigh has pressed higher. It is solid but yielding, not unlike the feel of a comfortable saddle. His wrist is still held to the wall; the fingers there twitch at the spark of heat sent through his nerves, and the mayor's breath comes out in a hiss as Javert's body takes over, and pushes back. He wishes it had not. The tension is sharp, a knife blade slid flat under his skin, and then twisted to set him on fire. His free hand grips Madeleine's arm suddenly, holds the fabric tight, and he feels the muscles tense underneath as the man puts his palm on the wall for support.

He looks down at himself, to hide the red on his face and hopefully, the shame. But it gets worse. He sees himself holding on, and one arm pinned. He sees Madeleine's strong thigh pushing up between his legs, and himself allowing it, opening for it, straddling that leg like a dog that cannot control itself. He groans as the man flexes his muscles, and feels himself flush once more. And then there are lips on his neck, brushing just above his stock; he cries out quietly and bucks his hips, and feels the mayor melt into him with a groan of his own.

'Please, Javert. Please. Allow this.'

He is trembling. His cock is so hard it aches. Every rub is the best kind of torture. He has been denied release for so long by his own mind, by his own mental failings towards this man. Every part of him knows it is sinful, but his treacherous body does not care. It is greedy, it yearns, and now it is being given exactly what it wants. Madeleine sucks at his throat, and puts a hand under his thigh to lift his leg. He allows it, and now they are pressed together, and when he moves his hips it is not a leg pressing against his erection. He has to let go of the jacket. His fingers roam, searching for an anchor; they find their way into soft curls as the mayor breathes harshly into his skin, grasping with his lips, moaning as they rut together. It is not efficient, not even effective, but he cannot make himself stop. And somewhere, he registers that Madeleine cannot either. There is a desperation to his movements. His mouth is hungry, quick; his hands unyielding as he arranges Javert's body to his liking. But he does not look him in the eye, and his muttered pleadings can barely be heard as they trip over each other, and get lost in the hot, red flush of his neck.

He pulls his hand from Madeleine's hair. He does not know what he is doing. He only knows that there must be satisfaction, and there are more direct ways of achieving it. He watches his own fingers start to pull at the buttons of another man's trousers, and they appear to belong to someone else. His vision blurs, he does not know if it is heat, or excitement, or tears. But then Madeleine is still, and shaking, and groaning against the leather constricting his throat, and he, Javert, is holding the man's prick in his hand. He does not know how they came to be here. It makes no sense. But the cock is fat, and hot, and it strains in his palm. He strokes on instinct. His fingertips run along the underside, and when he pulls it free of the man's clothes, he can plainly see how it weeps at the tip.

'Javert, _please_.' The mouth is on his jaw again. Gentle teeth nip, and their skin runs together with sweat. He tugs a little harder, and earns a cry that seems impossibly loud. It makes him wince, and makes his balls draw tighter. He does it again. He looks down as he does. Madeleine's prick is angry-red and crying steadily, even as it throbs in his hand. He pulls the pad of his thumb down the slit, sliding easily through the thick white tears to the patch under the head that used to work for himself. The mayor squeezes his wrist so hard it brings pain, and his fingernails dig into the muscle at the back of his leg. Javert hisses, though the pain only sets his nerves flying higher, and Madeleine thrusts into the touch, panting against his cheek. 'More. _More_.'

He gives more. Time has lost all meaning. He does not know where they are. There is only the wetness on his face, and the throbbing between his legs, and the rod in his hand, hard and smooth, like silk over iron. If he were allowed his other hand, he would push into those trousers and weigh the man's balls in his palm, as his dreams have made him do time after time. He would hold them tight, deny pleasure in one hand and give it with the other, in perfect balance. It is the only perverted justice he is fit for now, and he is doing it with eyes wide open.

The mayor is still. Then, there are lips on his. They are loose and unfocused, more a push together than a directed kiss. There is tongue swiping his lip; he moans and sucks it, and twists his thumb. Madeleine's head falls back. He licks his throat because he wants the taste of his sweat, and suckles the lump soundlessly working up and down. And now his hand moves in time, and he watches as the man's face goes slack for a second, eyes closed and mouth open…he feels the gathering wave through Madeleine's whole frame, and just before he looks down to watch, he sees the man's face twist in something like pain.

He feels as though his heart has stopped. But there is a cry, and his gaze is ripped downwards. His fingers have caught the first eruption; he slides them down out of the way, and watches the mayor shoot between them. A stream of white hits the man's waistcoat. Another smaller one soils his uniform. His hand stills. He swallows through a parched throat, and cannot look up.

'I…oh, blast. A moment.' Madeleine releases his leg, and fumbles for a handkerchief. Javert stands dumbly, still holding his cock. Even as the man wipes the mess carefully from his perfect blue coat, he just stands. It is not until he has fingers around his wrist, gently ushering him away, that he lets go.

He is being kissed. The ache is so strong, it feels as though everything is a long way away. But Madeleine's tongue is warm, and now there is a tugging at his own clothes. 'If I had time,' he hears, 'Javert, if things were different, and we had opportunity, I would ask if we could go to bed.'

'It is the afternoon,' he responds, automatically. 'We could not go to bed.'

He would like to cry, as if that were something he did. But Madeleine laughs quietly, and slips his hand inside his trousers. 'I would ask you to join me in the evening. I would do this properly.'

'I do not…is this not? I…cannot say. I have not done it before.'

His stomach is tied in knots. Fingers are touching him, he is sure of it, but he cannot feel them. The mayor kisses him again, and he does his best to respond. 'Nor I. But I feel it is something we could learn together.'

He says it so easily, as though this were not wrong. As though he has not just seen…no. Javert licks dry lips, and tries to give himself over. There is a slight scrape of nails. It is pleasant. His balls scream at him, and it would be easier if he could close his eyes. But he cannot take them from the mayor's face, with the skin mottled from exertion, and shining with perspiration. 'Was it good?'

Madeleine grins. And still, he thinks, it does not reach his eyes. Despite everything, the shoulders are still tense. 'It was like nothing I have ever known.'

'Good.'

He allows his head to drop back to the wall. Madeleine works inside his trousers. He lets it happen. But the ache is cooling, despite his efforts. Javert twists his eyes shut, and tries to unsee what he saw. He knows it is futile, and in the back of his mind, a guttural voice laughs at him.

'Javert?'

Madeleine is moving to free him from the confines of his trousers. Without looking down, he puts his hand down to stop him. With effort, he meets the man's eyes. 'What business are you going to see to?'

'…what?'

'I mean…how long will it keep you away?'

He watches closely. And…there. Before the confusion settles, a flash of something. Annoyance. Anger. Or perhaps…fear.

'I am not sure. It depends how it goes.' A pause. 'Is this really the time to discuss it?'

'No. Of course not. Apologies.' But he does not relinquish his grip on the man's wrist. He is still hard, he still throbs. But the desperation has passed. 'It is only…I wish we could do this properly too.'

A smile. Madeleine cannot move his hand, but he flexes his fingers. 'Perhaps there will be time.'

'Yes.' Another pause. The mayor raises his eyebrows at him, amused, as if as asking _may I continue?_ But Javert cannot unlock his hold. 'I just wonder…why now? This has been – well, if I am honest, I have wanted this. For some months, even.' It does not feel bad to admit, even in such an exposed state. Perhaps he is finally beyond shame. 'But if you are coming back, it seems strange that we could not have waited.'

There. The tiniest of blanches. Something settles in him. He drops his hand away.

'Javert-' Madeleine looks at him for a moment. Then seems to shake off whatever he was going to say, and starts his stroke again. Javert feels it physically, skin on skin, but the burning desire has left him. It is those nights on his own, all over again. 'I cannot explain it. I was frustrated with you, and then you were about to leave, and it just…seemed right. Did it not to you?'

'Yes,' he says, simply. Because it did. So right it hurt. And it hurts now, but in a different way. It is starting to feel as though this is something he will never be allowed to have. And maybe that is right. Maybe there is something looking out for him –his own conscience, maybe his own soul – making sure he does nothing that he cannot come back from. Because no matter what the laws of man say on this type of thing, the higher laws say different.

He straightens, so that his back is flat against the wall. 'Monsieur le Maire – I must go.'

Madeleine pauses again. Javert is surprised, even a little dismayed, to see disappointment on his face. 'But…do you not wish…?'

'I think…I think I cannot. I am sorry. It is not you – as I say, I have wanted this.'

Madeleine looks down. His fingers squeeze, just a tiny bit. 'Your body seems well capable.'

'I am sure it is. And I am twice sure that even if it were reluctant, you would be enough to tempt it to any lengths. But….sir, I must leave. I cannot be late with my transport. And – it will keep, will it not?'

For a long moment, there is nothing. Javert watches him with a kind of cool detachment he has not thought himself capable of for months. It is as if he had to see the man at his most vulnerable before he could resist him. Except it is not the mayor his mind resists, is it?

'Yes. It will keep.'

Madeleine releases him, his fingers pulling a slow stroke up his length. It releases a shiver through him, but he can recognise it is purely physical. It is not the bone-deep desire that has trapped him all this time. Javert stands still, and allows the mayor to refasten his buttons. In the back of his mind, there is that laugh. There is also his own voice, telling him what a fool he is. For allowing this to happen, and for turning it away now it has been offered.

'Thank you, monsieur.'

Madeleine steps back. The confusion is still there, and for one brain-sick moment, Javert wants to kiss it away.

'Javert, I am…I do not know what to say. I hope – please tell me you do not feel I forced this on you. I would be mortified.'

'No, sir. Not at all. As I said, I have wanted it.'

'I, too.'

'Yes.' It is the truth. He sees it, just as he thought he saw through the man that night in the office. But he was wrong then, was he not?

Madeleine does not move further. He adjusts his own clothes, and it is only the work of a moment until they are two respectable men once more. Only the remnants of a stain give them away; that, and the smell in the air. Their eyes meet; Javert knows his are calm. Madeleine's are not.

'I do not understand.'

He thinks about this. 'Nor I, fully. Perhaps…it feels like a sin, monsieur. Even though I want it, I feel I should not.'

'So, it will never happen again?'

'That, I cannot say.' And he is not sure if Madeleine can either. Disappointment seems clear. But why should that be, if he will return in a few days, or weeks? 'I would hope I am stronger, but my flesh – it seems weak. I have hopes of controlling it, but they have remained hopes only, where you are concerned.'

A smile. 'I am flattered. Even though I feel I should be ashamed myself, and encouraging both of us towards purity, I find I cannot do it. I am only a man. I do not want to be more.'

Javert would answer _I, too_. But perhaps it is not the truth. He strives, has striven, to be irreproachable. He has not met another man who tries for the same thing. Maybe it is unattainable, but he can surely continue his attempt? It cannot be too late.

The clock strikes in the hallway, and breaks his thoughts, and the moment. One more glance at Madeleine, and he picks his hat up from the armchair. Then bows.

'Javert?'

'Monsieur?'

'I feel there is something you are not telling me.'

His turn to smile, just a little. 'There are many things I do not tell anyone, sir. It is nothing personal.'

'Oh. Well, of course not.' Madeleine squares himself. He is every inch the mayor of Montreuil sur Mare. From the sight of him, it would be impossible to guess that just moments ago, he was begging and panting, and spraying his seed over the both of them. Javert rubs his tacky fingers together by his side. The evidence is still plain. 'I wish you farewell then, Inspector. I do hope your business turns out as it should.'

'As do I.' He makes his bow, and straightens. 'A good day to you, Monsieur le Maire.'

#####

The travel to Arras passes as though it does not happen. For a time, his skin itches. Cooled sweat, most likely, though that does not explain the internal shocks that will not leave him. The energy from the meeting runs 'round and around his body, racing along his nerves with nowhere to go. He tries to ignore it. In the end, he rests his head on the side of the carriage, and hopes for sleep. It is ridiculous, of course.

He is relieved that he did not go too far. Though it cannot count as no sin – his body and mind betrayed him both, and there can be no denying how much he wanted what was offered. If the mayor had taken him to bed, he has no doubt he would have done whatever was asked of him. Has he not dreamed of such things? But in the end, perhaps denial was just.

Whatever is to happen next, he hopes it is the trial that will decide it. Everything is as it should be. He will go and give the evidence of his eyes. Valjean will go back to the galleys, and therefore be chained away from his mind. He will no longer be able to laugh, and deny him. Then Madeleine will return from wherever it is he is going, and…they will see, then. He does not know if he can do it. Outside the moments of passion, the idea seems ludicrous. But in them – yes, he supposes. Anything could happen. He has proved he is too weak to resist.

The carriage rolls on. He is calm. There will be a trial, and then this will be done. Justice will be served. He shuts off all other thoughts.

It does not stop that laugh in the back of his mind. It does not hide him from _knowledge_, even knowledge that cannot possibly be correct.

Because in that moment before release; in that split-second before Madeleine lost control and came apart in his hands – there was no doubt in his mind. Not a shred. The eyes twisted, the cheeks bunched…and he was looking at the face of Jean Valjean. There was no mistake. It was him. The one who has been denying him for months, for years, was there before him. He had offered himself up. He was there for the taking.

But it is not he that Javert wants. And he does not exist at all. Not in flesh. Not standing in front of himself, pulsing all over his fingers. Not kissing him, and promising the delights of his bed. The law says so – he is in Arras, at this moment, awaiting justice. And tomorrow, it will be served. He will rot in some ship in the southern heat, or face the guillotine, and his mind will no longer be able to tell him Madeleine wears the face of another.

There will be no mistakes, and no more denial. This trial will set them all free.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: The formatting on this site is terrible. I would recommend reading this at archiveofourown dot com. It is under the username fightingthecage, and has the same title. Thanks to everyone who's read and commented/followed/favourited! **

#

Romans 13:1-5 :_Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment. For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Would you have no fear of the one who is in authority? Then do what is good, and you will receive his approval, for he is God's servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the wrongdoer. Therefore one must be in subjection, not only to avoid God's wrath but also for the sake of conscience._

_#####_

The trial is as it should be. He stands. He examines the face of Champmathieu. He keeps the full gravity of his discretionary power foremost in his mind. The man is old, he is worn. His face bears the marks of a life of toil. His eyes are near-vacant; there is no doubt the years in Toulon, and the time spent running, have caught up with him. There is strength in him, yes, but it is diminished by age, and the break from the hardest of labour. He is everything Jean Valjean should be.

He passes his judgement, and leaves. Valjean is not worthy of more time. He has no need to stay and hear sentence passed. He has done his duty, and he is eased.

#

As he leaves the diligence in Montreuil sur Mer, there are people waiting to board. A gentlemen stands at the side of the street, muttering to his companion. 'That rogue,' he says, and taps his cane crossly on the ground. 'Scaufflaire! He promised a cabriolet. This is intolerable.'

The companion sighs. Javert halts to listen in case of disturbance, or language unbefitting a public street. The man takes no notice of him, but his friend's glance is nervous. 'Hush, D'Anton. It is not Scaufflaire's fault.'

'A tilbury, even! But he gave it to the damnable mayor. As if a mayor travels by open carriage in winter, and in the dead of night! The man is a vampire.'

'Come now. The diligence waits.'

D'Anton grumbles on about the weather, and hills, and the state of the roads. His friend casts another glance at Javert, and he is left to wonder whether he knows of his acquaintance with Madeleine. Well, it is no secret they work closely. He nods when the unnamed man tips his hat, and watches them board. When it is done, he walks on.

A tilbury? So, Madeleine cannot be going far. That is well.

Tilburies are also fast. And the mayor left in the dead of night? He ponders this as he walks to the police house. At his desk, his fingers twitch in the direction of a pen. Twenty leagues to Arras. How far can a horse go before it must rest?

…no, he will not do this. He has laid eyes on Valjean, he has seen him, it is done. He pushes it from his mind, and returns to matters of the police. They are what concern him, and he is finished with distraction.

#

Night. He sleeps, and does not dream. His body leaves him alone. It is peace.

And then, a thundering at the door.

He is dragged from the depths; they claw at his mind as it rises, cling to his body as his eyes flicker open. He cannot make sense of the world; all is black, and the frigid air of his room is not enough to restore order. Fatigue weighs heavy in his bones. It would be so much easier to sink.

'Inspector!'

He forces himself to move. His muscles protest from the long day, and the hours being jolted on the road. His eyes do not want to stay open, so he twists his nails into the soft skin of his inner thigh until he is alert.

There is an officer in the hall. He draws up on seeing his superior, never mind that Javert is in his nightshirt.

'_Pardon_, Inspector. There is a matter of-'

Javert has held his hand out. An order of arrest is placed in it.

'Inspector?'

He can hear nothing but the roar of blood in his ears. The words blur as soon as he reaches the name. He has to wait for his vision to clear, but his chest will not unlock, and he cannot breathe. A blind hand finds the doorframe, and maybe there is a voice out there, asking if he is well. He cannot tell. Someone is laughing in his head.

'Where is he?'

'He said-'

'_Where!?'_

'The hospital, Inspector.'

'Meet me there. Do not enter. Call four soldiers, and guard the doors.'

He fumbles the door shut. The warrant is flung aside while he dresses. As he closes leather around his throat, he has to pick it up again. It cannot be true.

But it is. And he has known it all this time, has he not?

He does not hurry, though his nerves are alive with tension. More than alive: he feels he may burst with it. His mind supplies facts as he walks – the mayor…no, _Valjean_, left Montreuil in the middle of the night, and must have arrived at Arras after he himself had left. He can only have admitted the truth. And then, he came back here – why? So that he could be arrested by the man he made advances to not two days ago? Why did he not just stay in Arras, and let the court have him there and then? Unless those advances are the key. Because Valjean will have known him all this time, and by coming back he can look him in the eye, and laugh to his face.

He passes through the hospital entrance without acknowledging the murmurs of his inferiors. The portress gives him directions; he nods, and thanks her, and walks. The stairs disappear under his feet as though they are nothing, though his anger burns hotter with each step upwards.

Every base instinct demands he thrust the door open with sword drawn, and a curse on his lips. So he turns the handle quietly, and lets it swing open on its own. Valjean does not turn, possibly is not even aware. He sits on the whore's bed, and holds her hand while she rants quietly about something or other. Javert does not care what; would not, even on a normal day. The scene is peaceful until words lull, and she turns her eyes to the doorway. All at once, her face turns to horror, a skeleton skull with shadows for eyes, her mouth a gaping hole of nothing. She rises from her pillows; he thinks impassively that she might scream. She does not. She raises a hand, and it is this that Valjean follows. Their eyes lock, and as far as Javert is concerned, there is no one else in the room.

Since being roused in his quarters, he has tried to confine himself to the things he knows, or can divine. The time of travel, as an example. The probable events at Arras. But now, faced with the man, everything else rushes in and he cannot stop it. Not least of these questions is _why?_, even though he suspects the answer. To humiliate. To avenge. But there is more to _why_? than that – the man knew about Champmathieu, he knew what the outcome of the trial would be. Why interfere? Why give up his safety? And then, more: how did he know? That, at least, is easy; because he, Javert, told him. And so he made his advance, to make sure it was done in time. So that he would not be denied the humiliation of his police chief before the end. Surely. And he cannot say it was not planned. Those careful compliments, the way he drew him back after their anger pushed them apart. Javert wants to let the fury wash over him, and burn his mind away. He is sick with it. He wants the embarrassment to break him, as he deserves. It will have to wait. Now, there is only the law between them, and justice will be done.

'Javert.' Valjean rises, and Javert puts his hand to his sword. The woman cries out, and the convict half-turns his head, without releasing their locked gaze. 'Be at ease, Fantine. It is not for you that he is come.'

His tone is calm, gentle. Javert feels it mark his skin red with anger, though he does not move. It is hard enough to keep his breathing regular, and not give himself away. His bones are vibrating inside him, his nerves teased out to breaking point. All it will take is a finger to pull, and he will snap.

'Be quick about it!'

He should produce the arrest warrant. He should enter, and thrust it in the man's face, and then handcuff him and have done. But he does not move, and neither does Valjean. Only the woman does, looking between them, her skeleton mask with its 'O' of horror.

'Monsieur le Maire!'

'_No_.' It comes from Javert on instinct, ripped from him in disgust. 'There is no Monsieur le Maire here.'

'Please, Javert-'

'_No._' He strides to the centre of the room suddenly; the woman shrinks back, but Valjean holds his ground. 'Nothing from you. You will come with me.'

'Please, you must-'

'I must do nothing. Hold your tongue!'

'Javert, _listen._'

He will not. He extends his hand to catch the convict's shoulder. Valjean intercepts him, and holds his arm away as easily as fending off a toddling child. Caught there, Javert is reminded of two days ago, and himself similarly opened, and held against a wall. His eyes flick up. Valjean is thinking it too. It is there, on his face.

He wrenches his arm free, and shoves the man in the chest. He takes a step back, either from surprise, or pity. His head bows, but Javert feels no submission from him. He wants to hit him, to _make_ him submit, to show him how much lesser he is. It would even be just. But he cannot bring himself to raise his hand; probably, he thinks wildly, it is because once he starts with violence, he may not be able to stop.

'Monsieur Madeleine!' The woman is shrieking. He does not spare her a glance. Valjean shakes his head, and dares step closer to him.

'Javert, I must speak to you.'

'You may not do so. Come, Valjean. We will end this farce. Say your goodbye to this creature if you must, and then you will come with me.'

'I – yes, I will come with you. But please…she has a child. I have promised to protect her. Please, Javert-'

'You will address me as Monsieur l'Inspecteur.' He says it through gritted teeth. Valjean no longer attempts to meet his eyes.

'If you will. Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I must help this woman's child. I must go for her. I promise on the name of God I will return, and then you may do with me as you will. Three days is all I ask. You may even accompany me, if you do not trust my word. Monsieur, please. I have wronged this woman, and she needs my help.'

He turns from Javert as if he is nothing, as if the authority of justice, the law, of _right_ means nothing to him. Which of course, it does not. The woman is babbling, but his fury is rising to new heights, and he does not care to listen. Valjean thinks the law is there to suit him, that he may be arrested at his own convenience, that there is some kind of attachment here that means Javert would be flexible on this matter. The audacity of the man chokes his words for a moment; there is no way to give voice to his outrage.

He reaches, and wraps his fist around the man's collar. He is dimly aware of the woman shaking in the bed, but more clear on the muscles shifting through Valjean's shoulders. 'You have made sport of me for the last time.' It is a hiss, but clear enough. 'You are a fool, and you think me one also. I will not let you run. You are going nowhere, and certainly not for the child of a whore. Nowhere, but back where you belong.'

The next moments are blurred. He is anchored to them only by his grip on Valjean's clothes. She is shrieking now, and trembling, and he cannot bear it. 'Enough! This man is a convict. He is no mayor, and there will be no mercy shown. He would have you believe he can help; he lies! He is fetching no child. He is returning to the galleys. _Enough_ of your screeching, woman!'

And then she is dead.

The silence is terrible, coming on the heels of such noise. She moves no longer, Valjean is still, and only his own heaving chest breaks the calm. And then his hand is pulled away, and they are broken apart. He is adrift, unravelling at his seams. It is just the two of them again; he grips his sword for control, and puts his trust in the one steadfast belief of his life.

'It is over. You are arrested. Walk with me now.'

It comes out almost calm. He would not have thought himself capable. But Valjean is shaking his head, his gaze fixed on the corpse. There is a tremor to him; it is not hard to envision him holding tears inside, though the man's face is turned away.

'Why must you be so stubborn? Why must you-'

'No. We have had this before. And you will not coerce me this time.' He did not coerce him last time. He never did take the shirt. 'The guard waits below. I will not hesitate to order the thumbscrews if you delay longer. Let us be _done_.'

Valjean raises a hand. In the gesture is every nuance of his magisterial power, all his patience, all his authority. It demands silence, it demands a moment to contemplate. And Javert, to his horror, feels himself back down. It sickens him, this instant, unthinking, submission. But it is there, and he will not deny it exists. He can only rationalise it. Valjean has been playing mayor for some time, he has perfected the art of pretending to be more than he is. He is an actor, and a conman, and Javert has accepted the lie for the last five years. It is sense that he would react as conditioned, now. So long as he recognises what he is doing, there is little shame. It means he can break through it.

But he does not. Valjean is tending to the dead. He could call the soldiers at this moment, if he trusted that a last escape attempt would not be made. He does not trust it. He waits, while the convict lays the body down, and ties its chemise. He speaks to her, and arranges the hair back under the cap. Javert watches; despite himself, his heartbeat steadies in the calm of the man's movements. He can breathe freely again. He pushes the wild anger down, and puts a lid on it. Rage has its place, but it is not at the scene of an arrest. Judgement becomes flawed by it. And this man is nothing to him. He will not let him force a mistake, just because of what passed between them in a moment of weakness. As long as he remembers that there is nothing here but the police on one hand, and a convict on the other, he is confident. He _is_ calm. There are questions lurking, he knows, but they are not matters of the law, and so must be dealt with on his own time.

Valjean closes Fantine's eyes, and kisses her wayward hand before placing it by her side. And then, it seems, he is ready.

'We will talk.'

'We will not.' Javert straightens, and lets his hands fall to his sides. He can fight from this stance, if he has to. 'There is nothing I am interested to hear. You will come with me now.'

'I will come with you. But we will talk first, because I owe you that.'

'You owe me nothing but your liberty, Jean Valjean.'

'You must allow me to explain.'

'I _must_ do nothing!'

'Javert, we cannot act as though there is nothing else but-' he gestures vaguely around them, 'this. I owe you an apology, a most sincere and-'

'An _apology?_ Oh, no. No, Valjean. You cannot be so arrogant as to think I would hear one, let alone accept it. Let alone _believe _it. No, not even you could be so bold.'

'Would it be easier for you to think me so callous, then? Well, yes, I suppose that question answers itself. But I must deny it; I cannot have you think this of me. Even if you will not believe me, which I know you will not. Perhaps you will remember my words though, and in time, find it in yourself to trust them.'

'Trust the word of a convict? _Pah_.' He does not quite spit though he would have, a lifetime ago. He paces by the door now, a slow step that has him ready to spring, should the man try and pass him. It is a vague notion; that he should walk over and fetch him, and that if he did, the man would probably not resist. Still, he does not approach. 'Trust the word of a mayor? But you are no mayor, and no gentleman. You are a liar. You have lied. You have taken everyone in. And I! Who saw through you, and was called mad for it!' He swivels on his heel, and points a finger. 'Why did you not have me removed, as I asked? No, do not answer. I will answer. It is because you were going to the trial, and there would be no use to it. I would be reinstated at once, after your discovery as the real Valjean. So then, why denounce yourself at all? Let the Champmathieu man take your crimes. Remove your inspector, live your lie! I do not understand it, and I do not care to. It means nothing. You are Jean Valjean, and you will return to the galleys.'

He had not meant to speak so much, and curses his tongue. Curses further, when he sees the tirade has allowed the man to advance unnoticed. He is only three paces away; he could strike in an instant. Javert squares himself, faces the man, and blocks the door. But Valjean does not move.

'You have to ask, Javert? Why I could not let an innocent man be taken to that place in my stead? Do you not remember Toulon?'

'Do I not-?' He laughs harshly; to his own ears, a little desperate. 'I am sure I remember it far better than you.'

A frown, then. 'You believe time spent watching us work is the same? When you had your beds, or hammocks, and we had only a plank? When you had food, and we had beans and a lump of meat once a week? While we toiled all day under that sun, and took the lash, and the rack, and the illness, and the-'

'Oh, stop. It is simple enough; if you did not like the galleys, you should not have stolen. And you, in particular, should not have tried to run. You were a stupid beast then, 24601, and you are still-'

'_No._' Valjean is in his space, all of a sudden. He is close, and solid, and angry. 'You will not give me that number. You will not call me a beast. We are not _beasts_, and-'

'Step away. Do it at once, or I shall draw my sword.'

He says it softly; it is strange, but the threat of violence is a balm. Let the man fight, and there will be no more words. He is strong, but Javert is armed, and trained in using the weapon. There are soldiers downstairs. Valjean may kill him, but there will be no escape.

Valjean steps back, and swallows hard. 'I stole bread because my sister's child was starving. I ran because I was desperate. I am not a dangerous man. Can you not understand this? '

His tone says more than the question. It is as though he wants to be known. As though Javert might care to learn things about him, and through understanding…what? Let him go?

Something bursts inside him. It is not the boiling rage of before. It is a quiet bubble of disgust, rising through the sulphur of this conversation, and popping gently in his chest. It sends words to his mouth, and he does not stop them spilling forth. 'I was born in a jail, Valjean. My father was a convict, just as you are.' Nothing registers on the man's face. Just as he thought; he does not care. 'I understand starvation. I understand desperate. And yet, do you see me pretending to be mayor of a town? Have you ever seen me wear a red smock? Where are the scars at _my_ wrist?'

He grabs without thinking, and yanks back the tidy shirt-cuff. Yes. There. And the convict does not pull away, or try to hide them. He simply smiles. 'I have said it already, Javert. You are an honourable man. And I esteem you highly, Monsieur l'Inspecteur.'

Javert drops the wrist as though it burns. Valjean is examining his face; he turns it away, and forces thought from his mind. 'Enough.'

'No. I must explain myself. Not my crimes. You know of these, and I think, if you applied yourself, you could see why I have done the things I have in the name of Madeleine.'

His blood begins its simmer all over again at the notion that he does not already see. But the convict has no care of his patronising tone, and Javert is more angry at himself for being affected by it, than by his words. 'I have told you-'

'And I have told _you_, you must hear this. In my house…I cannot forgive myself. I know you will not forgive me. But I must apologise.'

'You think too much of yourself. Why would I ponder the actions of a man such as you? You are depraved, and I was weak. It is not a betrayal of any kind, when seen in the light of what you are.'

Valjean's face darkens. Javert quails a little at the sight. He does not want to think on this. He lets anger rise to burn the fear away, and stands his ground.

'In the light of what I _am?_ What has my past got to do with my esteem of you? Do you not…_why_ do you not understand!?' He breaks off, his voice becoming desperate. Javert holds his fury in his chest, cherishes it there, because it hides his shame at the memory of the last time they were frustrated with each other. He cannot bear it; he must hold himself above. He must be the law.

'If I had not – do you think I have not seen what you have wanted? As I have wanted it? No, it is not right, what I have done. But let me ask you, man – would you prefer false rejection? If I were as restrained as you have tried to be, and let you believe I did not care – would that have been just? Would it have been kind? _Think_, Javert, I beg of you. Do you condemn me for the honesty of my feeling toward you?'

Javert is shaking his head, and cannot stop. 'This is mockery. It is a lie. You are a _liar_, Jean Valjean, and would have me spare you on the strength of some imagined feeling. You are mad. And you would think me even weaker than I have been, and I _will not stand it_.'

Valjean stares as if he has spoken in tongues. And then emits an incredulous huff of a laugh, though there is pain behind it. 'I do not ask you to spare me. I do not think you capable of it, and most certainly not on the basis of emotion. But I would have you understand.' He closes the distance between them, and once more, Javert cannot move. He wants nothing more than to end this agony with his rapier's point. But then Valjean has his face in his hands, and his lips press to his, firm and warm, and unyielding. He does not have the strength to pull away, though his stomach turns in disgust. Valjean pulls back an inch, so they are eye-to-eye. There is compassion in the brown depths, and he hates him for it. 'I did not lie about this.'

For a second, he almost wants to believe it. He can find no untruth in that gaze. But that means nothing; he has been blind enough over this man for the last five years.

'Unhand me, Valjean. And, hear me – _never_ do that again.'

His voice is hoarse. But it is enough. Valjean steps back, his face crumbling into something he does not care to name. 'I apologise once more.'

Javert draws his sword. He brings the point to the man's throat, and lets it rest there. The convict stands still. They both pretend the steel does not shake, just a little. 'You did lie about that. I was stupid to have allowed anything to occur – but do you think, for even a second, I would have wanted it if I knew who you were?'

He is easy with himself on this point. Madeleine has tormented him, but Valjean has denied him. Valjean makes him sick, Valjean has no appeal. The convict's laugh is…well, it wears a different voice now, it can no longer be called guttural. But a slave is still a slave, no matter that he has shaved, and wears gentleman's clothes. A disguise may hide a man, but will never transform him forever.

He steps aside, and jerks the point of the sword towards the open doorway. 'Walk.'

Valjean walks. And then shoots out a hand to grab his arm, turns the blade away, and pulls so that Javert's ear is only an inch from his mouth. His growl is rough, yes, but still refined, and it holds a smile that can only be described as _sin_. 'But you did know who I was, Javert. You _always_ knew who I was.'

He is released. The sword points limply at the floor. He swivels his gaze to meet the brown eyes, unbidden; they glance down at the leather at his throat, as they have done before. 'Your stock is awry. Who would have thought it possible?'

The uneven tread, forged in Toulon, moves on. He follows it with his ears, and a chest withering with shame. It is a moment before he can sheathe his sword. A second's work rights his stock, and he pulls a hand over his face. There is sweat on it. He had not realised. _Damn you_, he thinks, but is not sure who he is talking to. And in the end, what does it matter? They are both damned, and have been for some time.

###

He writes down what he knows of Madeleine. That he came to Montreuil-sur-Mer five years ago. His invention, his success at the factory. His rise to mayor. He writes of the esteem he was held in – was, because the streets are abuzz with people refuting him, and have been all day. He writes of his charity work, his expansion of the hospital, his good reputation as an employer. Nothing is left out, nothing is hidden. It is not a document designed to save anyone, it is merely a statement of fact. There is nothing that could save him from this anyway; the final lines consist of _despite all, Madeleine is Jean Valjean, a recidivist, and a parole breaker_.' And Javert is in no way inclined, even if he were capable, to try and help the man.

He spends the morning working on it. Everyone leaves him be. After lunch, he takes it to the cell. 'Read this. Tell me if there is anything you disagree with.'

He watches the wall as he waits. Valjean takes his time. And then, 'you have been generous.'

'No. It is all merely as it was.' A pen. 'Sign your name.'

He does not sign. He sets it down on top of the paper, and puts both aside. Javert glares at him, and forgoes the threats. He knows well the look on the man's face. 'What do you want?'

'To know if you have thought on what I said.'

'I have been too busy writing your biography. I am in no mood for this, Valjean. Sign your fool name.'

The convict chuckles quietly, though there is not much humour in it. 'My fool name. Yes, I suppose it is. It has caused me enough trouble. Nonetheless, I am pleased to hear you say it. It has been a long while.'

'Next you will be telling me you have been burning your heart at night, wanting me to know it.' Valjean shakes his head. 'I am so glad. Now sign the document.'

'In a moment. You should have realised by now, I am not denying anything I have done.'

'Am I supposed to grant you credit for this?'

'Of course not.'

He is, a little. He is more accustomed to people who deny everything at the first sign of the police, even before knowing what they might be accused of. It is rare that a prisoner admits everything. They are usually so full of excuses.

'I want you to know I meant it. I did not lie, and I never meant to betray you. And I do not regret the incident at my house.'

'The same cannot be said for me.'

Valjean looks tired. Javert knows _he_ is. He knows he has not the energy to walk these circles again. His anger has not diminished, it just burns lower, a white-hot heat encircling his unbreakable heart. He would never show it anyway, no matter who he was arresting, so it is no different now. It will remain, as his bile towards these people always does. Maybe there is more of it in this case, that is all. At the end of things, though, an arrest is an arrest.

'Let me ask you a question, Monsieur l'Inspecteur.'

'You have no right to, and I will not answer.'

'Oh, I do not need an answer. But perhaps you do.' Valjean smiles benevolently, and Javert once more would like to hit him. 'You looked at me one night, in my factory. You stood below, and I above, and you…I think I do not go too far when I venture that all our secrets were laid bare, that night. That I knew I was not alone in my feeling toward you, and you knew I was Jean Valjean.'

He keeps himself very, very still. He knows there is no expression on his face. It does not seem necessary; Valjean continues – 'my question is this; after that night, and that knowledge, how could you be so convinced of who Champmathieu was supposed to be?' He stands, and comes towards him. Javert allows it, because he does not trust his voice. 'You did not know I would go to Arras. You convicted him in your own mind, and returned without seeing it confirmed. So, did you denounce the man to save your precious law its blushes over having the wrong man? Or were you trying to save Madeleine?'

A third option presents itself in the recesses of Javert's brain; _I could have meant to banish a demon from my mind_. But his face is set as stone, and he will not alter that. Valjean's words open a void in him, and it is one that finally makes this easier to bear.

He turns his head, and finds a smile of his own. 'If you believe either of those options…you know nothing of me, Jean Valjean. You think you saw everything as mayor; I tell you, you saw nothing. And you will see nothing more.'

A pause, and he can finally regard the man, and see only one face to him. It is a blessed relief. The laugh in his head is gone. What need has he of it, when the real one is only feet away? 'Sign the paper. You have asked your last question of me.'

Valjean's eyes watch his face. There is uncertainty there. But Javert withholds all, and after a minute, the man turns away, retrieves the paper, and signs it.

'That is all, then.'

They are their last words, he thinks. Tomorrow, Valjean will be removed and taken to the Assizes court. He will close the chapter on this creature, and life can begin anew.

He does not look back as he sweeps from the cell. The convict can frustrate him no longer, and Madeleine does not exist. In the end, he was right. The trial has set him free. It set him back on the correct path, and he is glad to retake it. Things are as they should be; he has his duty, and Valjean will be forced to repay his debt to the law. This is all that matters. He will nevermore doubt it.

#

Night. He is dreamless.

And then, a thundering at the door.


End file.
